When he entered Marsham's room he found the invalid asleep under the
influence of morphia. The valet, a young fellow, was noiselessly putting
things straight. Lankester noticed that he looked pale.
"A bad time?" he said, in a whisper, standing beside the carefully
regulated spinal couch on which Marsham was sleeping.
"Awful, sir. He was fair beside himself till we gave him the morphia."
"Is there anybody sitting up?"
"No. He'll be quiet now for six or seven hours. I shall be in the next
room."
The young man spoke wearily. It was clear that the moral strain of what
he had just seen had weighed upon him as much as the fatigue of the
day's attendance.
"Come!" said Lankester, looking at him. "You want a good night. Go to my
room. I'll lie down there." He pointed to Marsham's bedroom, now
appropriated to the valet, while the master, for the sake of space and
cheerfulness, had been moved into the sitting-room. The servant
hesitated, protested, and was at last persuaded, being well aware of
Marsham's liking for this queer, serviceable being.
Lankester took various directions from him, and packed him off. Then,
instead of going to the adjoining room, he chose a chair beside a shaded
lamp, and said to himself that he would sleep by the fire.
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