“There’s some ‘Old Tom,’ isn’t there? Get it, and glasses and cold water, here,” said Cleve to his servant, who, patient, polite, sleepy, awaited his master. “You used to like it—and here are cigars;” and he shook out a shower upon his drawing-room table cover. “And where did you want to go at this time of night?”
“To Wright’s, to see the end of the great game of billiards—Seller and Culverin, you know; I’ve two pounds on it.”
“I don’t care if I go with you, just now. What’s this?—When the devil did this come?” Cleve had picked up and at one pale glance read a little note that lay on the table; and then he repeated coolly enough—
“I say, when did this come?”
“Before one, sir, I think,” said Shepperd.
“Get me my coat,” and Shepperd disappeared.
“Pestered to death,” he said, moodily. “See, you have got the things here, and cigars. I shan’t be five minutes away. If I’m longer, don’t wait for me; but finish this first.”