Esther Mawson led the way along this until
she and Pratt came to a turret in the grey walls, in the lower story of
which a massive oaken door, heavily clamped with iron, gave entrance to
a winding stair, locked it from inside when she and Pratt had entered,
and preceded her companion up the stair, and across one or two empty and
dust-covered chambers to a small room in which a few pieces of ancient
furniture were slowly dropping to decay. Pratt had taken refuge in this
room before, and he sat down in one of the old chairs and mopped his
forehead.
"I want something to drink, above everything," he remarked. "What can
you get?"
"Nothing but wine," answered Esther Mawson. "As much as you like of
that, because I've a stock that's kept up in Mrs. Mallathorpe's room. I
couldn't get any ale without going to the butler. I can get wine and
sandwiches without anybody knowing."
"That'll do," said Pratt. "What sort of wine?"
"Port, sherry, claret," she replied. "Whichever you like."
"Sherry, then," answered Pratt. "Bring a bottle if you can get it--I
want a good drink."
The woman went away--through the disused part of the old house into the
modern portion. She went straight to a certain store closet and took
from it a bottle of old dry sherry which had been brought there from a
bin in the cellars--it was part of a quantity of fine wine laid down by
John Mallathorpe, years before, and its original owner would have been
disgusted to think that it should ever be used for the mere purpose of
quenching thirst.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267