Cowen's eyes flashed; he took out his phial of laudanum and emptied about a fifth part of it into the bottle. Cutler whined at the door, "Do open the door, your wuship, and let's have t'other (hic)." "Why, the key is on your side." A feeble-minded laugh at the discovery, a fumbling with the key, and the door opened, and Cutler stood in the doorway, with his cravat disgracefully loose and his visage wreathed in foolish smiles. His eyes joggled; he pointed with a mixture of surprise and low cunning at the table. "Why, there is t'other bo'l! Let's have'm." "Nay," said Cowen, "I drain no bottles at this time; one glass suffices me. I drink your health." He raised his glass. Cutler grabbed the bottle and said, brutally, "And I'll drink yours!" and shut the door with a slam, but was too intent on his prize to lock it. Cowen sat and listened. He heard the wine gurgle, and the drunkard draw a long breath of delight. Then there was a pause; then a snatch of song, rather melodious and more articulate than Mr. Cutler's recent attempts at discourse. Then another gurgle and another loud "Ah!" Then a vocal attempt, which broke down by degrees. Then a snore. Then a somnolent remark--"All right!" Then a staggering on to his feet. Then a swaying to and fro, and a subsiding against the door. Then by and by a little reel at the bed and a fall flat on the floor. Then stertorous breathing. Cowen sat still at the keyhole some time, then took off his boots and softly mounted his chair, and applied his eye to the peep-hole. Cutler was lying on his stomach between the table and the bed. Cowen came to the door on tiptoe and turned the handle gently; the door yielded. He lost nerve for the first time in his life. What horrible shame, should the man come to his senses and see him! He stepped back into his own room, ripped up his portmanteau, and took out, from between the leather and the lining, a disguise and a mask. He put them on. Then he took his loaded cane; for he thought to himself, "No more stabbing in that room," and he crept through the door like a cat. The man lay breathing stertorously, and his lips blowing out at every exhalation like lifeless lips urged by a strong wind, so that Cowen began to fear, not that he might wake, but that he might die. It flashed across him he should have to leave England. What he came to do seemed now wonderfully easy; he took the key by its ribbon carefully off the sleeper's neck; unlocked the despatch-box, took off his hat, put the gold into it, locked the despatch-box, replaced the key, took up his hatful of money, and retired slowly on tiptoe as he came.