Excerpt
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE SKELETON IS MCLAUGHLIN'S CLOSET.
Night, spotted with stars, like a black leopard, crouched once more upon Bumsteadville, and her one eye to be seen in profile, the moon, glared upon the helpless place with something of a cat's nocturnal stare of glassy vision for a stupefied mouse. Midnight had come with its twelve tinkling drops more of opiate, to deepen the stupor of all things almost unto death, and still the light shone luridly through the window-curtains of Mr. BUMSTEAD'S room, and still the lonely musician sat stiffly at a dinner-table spread for three, whereof only a goblet, a curious antique black bottle, a bowl of sugar, a saucer of lemon-slices, a decanter of water, and a saucer of cloves appeared to have been used by the solitary diner.
Unconscious that, through the door ajar at his back, a pair of vigilant human orbs were upon him, the ritualistic organist, who was in very low spirits, drew an emaciated and rather unsteady hand repeatedly across his perspiring brow, and talked in deep bass to himself.
"He came in, af'r' bein' brisgly walked up'n-down the turnpike by PENDRAGON, and slammed himself down-'n-that-chair," ran the soliloquy, with a ghostly nod towards an opposite chair, drawn back from the table. "'Inebrious boy!' says I, sternly, 'how-are-y'-now?' He said 'Poorawell;' 'n' wen' down on-er-floor fas'hleep! I w's scan'l'ized.—Whowoonbe?—I took m' umbrella 'n' thrashed 'm with it, remarking 'F'shame! waygup! mis'able boy! 's poorysight-f'r-'nuncle-t' see-'s-nephew-'n-this-p'litical-c'ndit'n.'—H'slep on; 'n' 't last I picked up him, 'n' umbrella, 'n' took 'm out t' some cool place t'shleep't off. Where'd' I take him? Thashwazmarrer—where'd' I leave'm?"
Repeating this question to himself, with an almost frenzied intensity, the gloomy victim of a treacherous memory threw an unearthly stare of bloodshot questioning all over the room, and, after a swaying motion or two of the upper half of his body, pitched forward, with his forehead crashing upon the table. Instantly recovering himself, and starting to rub his head, he as suddenly checked that palliative process by a wild run to his feet and a hideous bellow.
"I r'memb'r, now!" he ejaculated, walking excitedly at a series of obtuse angles all over the apartment. "Got-'t-knockedinto-m'-head-'t-last. Pauper bur'l ground—J. M'GLAUGHLIN. Down'n cellar—cool placefa' man's tight—lef' m' umbrella there by m'stake—go'n' get't thishmin't—"
Managing, after several inaccurate aims at the doorway, to plunge into the adjacent bedroom, he presently reappeared from thence, veering hard-aport, with a lighted lantern in his right hand. Then, circuitously approaching the neglected dining-table, he grasped with his disengaged digits at the antique black bottle, missed it, went all the way around the board before he could stop himself, clutched and missed again, went clear around once more, and finally effected the capture. "Th 'peared t' be two," he muttered, placing the prize in one of his pockets; and, with a triumphant stride, made for the half-open hall-door through which the eyes had been watching him....