I know M'Leod
did.
It was a disgraceful evening. To say we rioted through the house
is to put it mildly. We played a sort of Blind Man's Buff along
the darkest passages, in the unlighted drawing-room, and little
dining-room, calling cheerily to each other after each
exploration that here, and here, and here, the trouble-had
removed itself. We came up to the bedroom--mine for the night
again--and sat, the women on the bed, and we men on chairs,
drinking in blessed draughts of peace and comfort and cleanliness
of soul, while I told them my tale in full, and received fresh
praise, thanks, and blessings.
When the servants, returned from their day's outing, gave us a
supper of cold fried fish, M'Leod had sense enough to open no
wine. We had been practically drunk since nightfall, and grew
incoherent on water and milk.
"I like that Baxter," said M'Leod. "He's a sharp man. The death
wasn't in the house, but he ran it pretty close, ain't it?"
"And the joke of it is that he supposes I want to buy the place
from you," I said.
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