I put on a wrapper,
and called Mr. Reynolds by knocking at his door. Then I went on to the
front room. The door was closed, and some one beyond was groaning. My
heart stood still, and then raced on. I opened the door and looked in.
Mr. Holcombe was on the bed, fully dressed. He had a wet towel tied
around his head, and his face looked swollen and puffy. He opened one
eye and looked at me.
"What a night!" he groaned.
"What happened! What did you find?"
He groaned again. "Find!" he said. "Nothing, except that there was
something wrong with that whisky. It poisoned me. I haven't been out
of the house!"
So for that day, at least, Mr. Ladley became Mr. Holcombe again,
and as such accepted ice in quantities, a mustard plaster over his
stomach, and considerable nursing. By evening he was better, but
although he clearly intended to stay on, he said nothing about
changing his identity again, and I was glad enough. The very name of
Ladley was horrible to me.
The river went down almost entirely that day, although there was still
considerable water in the cellars.
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