He sent for such remedies as were needed by
a man who had been bruised by a fall from his horse. He made no remark
which could be considered explanatory, after he had said irritably that
a man was a fool to go loitering along on a nervous brute who needed
watching. Whatsoever happened was his own damned fault.
Through hours of day and night he lay staring at the whitewashed beams
or the blue roses on the wall paper. They were long hours, and filled
with things not pleasant enough to dwell on in detail. Physical misery
which made a man writhe at times was not the worst part of them. There
were a thousand things less endurable. More than once he foamed at the
mouth, and recognised that he gibbered like a madman.
There was but one memory which saved him from feeling that this was the
very end of things. That was the memory of Broadmorlands. While a man
had a weapon left, even though it could not save him, he might pay up
with it--get almost even. The whole Vanderpoel lot could be plunged neck
deep in a morass which would leave mud enough sticking to them, even
if their money helped them to prevent its entirely closing over their
heads. He could attend to that, and, after he had set it well going, he
could get out.
Pages:
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932