I learned afterwards that poor Lycidas, while trimming the Christmas-tree, and talking merrily with Mary and Morton,—­who, by good luck, had brought round his presents late, and was staying to tie on glass balls and apples,—­had given himself a deep and dangerous wound with the point of the unlucky knife, and had lost a great deal of blood before the hemorrhage could be controlled.  Just before I entered, the stick tourniquet which Morton had improvised had slipped in poor Mary’s unpractised hand, at the moment he was about to secure the bleeding artery, and the blood followed in such a gush as compelled him to give his whole attention to stopping its flow.  He only knew my entrance by the “Ah, Mr. Ingham,” of the frightened Irish girl, who stood useless behind the head of the bed.

“O Fred,” said Morton, without looking up, “I am glad you are here.”

“And what can I do for you?”

“Some whiskey,—­first of all.”

“There are two bottles,” said Mary, who was holding the candle,—­“in the cupboard behind his dressing-glass.”

I took Bridget with me, struck a light in the dressing-room (how she blundered about the match), and found the cupboard door locked!  Key doubtless in Mary’s pocket,—­probably in pocket of “another dress.”  I did not ask.  Took my own bunch, willed tremendously that my account-book drawer key should govern the lock, and it did.  If it had not, I should have put my fist through the panels.  Bottle of bedbug poison; bottle marked “bay rum”; another bottle with no mark; two bottles of Saratoga water.  “Set them all on the floor, Bridget.”  A tall bottle of Cologne.  Bottle marked in MS. What in the world is it?  “Bring that candle, Bridget.”  “Eau destillee.  Marron, Montreal.”  What in the world did Lycidas bring distilled water from Montreal for?  And then Morton’s clear voice in the other room, “As quick as you can, Fred.”  “Yes! in one moment.  Put all these on the floor, Bridget.”  Here they are at last.  “Bourbon whiskey.”  “Corkscrew, Bridget.”

“Indade, sir, and where is it?” “Where?  I don’t know.  Run down as quick as you can, and bring it.  His wife cannot leave him.”  So Bridget ran, and the first I heard was the rattle as she pitched down the last six stairs of the first flight headlong.  Let us hope she has not broken her leg.  I meanwhile am driving a silver pronged fork into the Bourbon corks, and the blade of my own penknife on the other side.

“Now, Fred,” from George within. (We all call Morton “George.”) “Yes, in one moment,” I replied.  Penknife blade breaks off, fork pulls right out, two crumbs of cork come with it.  Will that girl never come?