There was not a moment to be wasted on the purely speculative question of Betteredge’s conscience.  Mr. Blake might make his appearance in search of me, unless I went to him at once in his own room.  Miss Verinder followed me out into the corridor.

“They seem to be in a conspiracy to persecute you,” she said.  “What does it mean?”

“Only the protest of the world, Miss Verinder—­on a very small scale—­against anything that is new.”

“What are we to do with Mrs. Merridew?”

“Tell her the explosion will take place at nine to-morrow morning.”

“So as to send her to bed?”

“Yes—­so as to send her to bed.”

Miss Verinder went back to the sitting-room, and I went upstairs to Mr. Blake.

To my surprise I found him alone; restlessly pacing his room, and a little irritated at being left by himself.

“Where is Mr. Bruff?” I asked.

He pointed to the closed door of communication between the two rooms.  Mr. Bruff had looked in on him, for a moment; had attempted to renew his protest against our proceedings; and had once more failed to produce the smallest impression on Mr. Blake.  Upon this, the lawyer had taken refuge in a black leather bag, filled to bursting with professional papers.  “The serious business of life,” he admitted, “was sadly out of place on such an occasion as the present.  But the serious business of life must be carried on, for all that.  Mr. Blake would perhaps kindly make allowance for the old-fashioned habits of a practical man.  Time was money—­and, as for Mr. Jennings, he might depend on it that Mr. Bruff would be forthcoming when called upon.”  With that apology, the lawyer had gone back to his own room, and had immersed himself obstinately in his black bag.

I thought of Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and of Betteredge and his conscience.  There is a wonderful sameness in the solid side of the English character—­just as there is a wonderful sameness in the solid expression of the English face.

“When are you going to give me the laudanum?” asked Mr. Blake impatiently.

“You must wait a little longer,” I said.  “I will stay and keep you company till the time comes.”

It was then not ten o’clock.  Inquiries which I had made, at various times, of Betteredge and Mr. Blake, had led me to the conclusion that the dose of laudanum given by Mr. Candy could not possibly have been administered before eleven.  I had accordingly determined not to try the second dose until that time.

We talked a little; but both our minds were preoccupied by the coming ordeal.  The conversation soon flagged—­then dropped altogether.  Mr. Blake idly turned over the books on his bedroom table.  I had taken the precaution of looking at them, when we first entered the room.  The guardian; the tatler; Richardson’s Pamela; Mackenzie’s man of feeling; Roscoe’s Lorenzo