The wretched object being much embarrassed by holding what remained of his hat, Eugene airily tossed it to the door, and put him down in a chair.

“It will be necessary, I think,” he observed, “to wind up Mr. Dolls, before anything to any mortal purpose can be got out of him. Brandy, Mr. Dolls, or — ?”

“Threepenn’orth Rum,” said Mr. Dolls.

A judiciously small quantity of the spirit was given him in a wine- glass, and he began to convey it to his mouth, with all kinds of falterings and gyrations on the road.

“The nerves of Mr. Dolls,” remarked Eugene to Lightwood, “are considerably unstrung. And I deem it on the whole expedient to fumigate Mr. Dolls.”

He took the shovel from the grate, sprinkled a few live ashes on it, and from a box on the chimney- piece took a few pastiles, which he set upon them; then, with great composure began placidly waving the shovel in front of Mr. Dolls, to cut him off from his company.

“Lord bless my soul, Eugene!” cried Lightwood, laughing again, “what a mad fellow you are! Why does this creature come to see you?”

“We shall hear,” said Wrayburn, very observant of his face withal. “Now then. Speak out. Don’t be afraid. State your business, Dolls.”

“Mist Wrayburn!” said the visitor, thickly and huskily. “ — ’Tis Mist Wrayburn, ain’t?” With a stupid stare.

“Of course it is. Look at me. What do you want?”

Mr. Dolls collapsed in his chair, and faintly said “Threepenn’orth Rum.”

“Will you do me the favour, my dear Mortimer, to wind up Mr. Dolls again?” said Eugene. “I am occupied with the fumigation.”

A similar quantity was poured into his glass, and he got it to his lips by similar circuitous ways. Having drunk it, Mr. Dolls, with an evident fear of running down again unless he made haste, proceeded to business.

“Mist Wrayburn. Tried to nudge you, but you wouldn’t. You want that drection. You want t’know where she lives. Do you Mist Wrayburn?”

With a glance at his friend, Eugene replied to the question sternly, “I do.”

“I am er man,” said Mr. Dolls, trying to smite himself on the breast, but bringing his hand to bear upon the vicinity of his eye, “er do it. I am er man er do it.”

“What are you the man to do?” demanded Eugene, still sternly.

“Er give up that drection.”

“Have you got it?”

With a most laborious attempt at pride and dignity, Mr. Dolls rolled his head for some time, awakening the highest expectations, and then answered, as if it were the happiest point that could possibly be expected of him: “No.”

“What do you mean then?”