"You are better now? You can tell me more?" he said, resting a moment
from his violent exertions.
With the unsettled air of one coming out of a complicated dream, Mr.
BUMSTEAD chewed the cloves musingly; then, after nodding excessively,
with a hideous smile upon his countenance, suddenly threw an arm about
the neck of his restorer and wept loudly upon his bosom.
"My fr'en'," he wailed, in a damp voice, "lemme confess to you. I'm a
mis'able man, my fr'en'; perfectly mis'able. These cloves--these
insidious tropical spices--have been thebaneofmyexistence. On Chrishm's
night--_that_ Chrishm's night--I toogtoomany. Wha'scons'q'nce? I put m'
nephew an' m' umbrella away somewhere, an 've neverb'n able
terremembersince!"
Still sustaining his weight, the author of "The Amateur Detective" at
first seemed nonplussed; but quickly changed his expression to one of
abrupt intelligence.
"I see, now; I begin to see," he answered, slowly, and almost in a
whisper. "On the night of that Christmas dinner here, you were in a
clove-trance, and made some secret disposition, (which you have not
since been able to remember,) of your umbrella--and nephew. Until very
lately--until now, when you are nearly, but _not quite_, as much under
the influence of cloves again--you have had a vague general idea that
somebody else must have killed Mr. DROOD and stolen your umbrella. But
now, that you are partially in the same condition, physiologically and
psychologically, as on the night of the disappearance, you have once
more a partial perception of what were the facts of the case.
Pages:
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30