Consequently, the flowing bowl has continually
brimmed--Chichester's doing, of course,--and he seems to consider
you his mortal enemy, and--in short, I think it only right to--put
you on your guard."
"You mean against--Chichester?"
"I mean against--Barrymaine!"
"Ah!" said Barnabas, chin in hand, "but why?"
"Well, you'll remember that the only time you met him he was
inclined to be--just a l-ee-tle--violent, perhaps?"
"When he attacked me with the bottle,--yes!" sighed Barnabas,
"but surely that was only because he was drunk?"
"Y-e-s, perhaps so," said Mr. Smivvle, fumbling for his whisker again,
"but this morning he--wasn't so drunk as usual."
"Well?"
"And yet he was more violent than ever--raved against you like a
maniac."
"But--why?"
"It was just after he had received another of Jasper Gaunt's
letters,--here it is!" and, stooping, Mr. Smivvle picked up a
crumpled paper that had lain among the ashes, and smoothing it out,
tendered it to Barnabas. "Read it, sir,--read it!" he said earnestly,
"it will explain matters, I think,--and much better than I can. Yes
indeed, read it, for it concerns you too!" So Barnabas took the letter,
and this is what he read:
DEAR MR.
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