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Updated: June 1, 2025
I can take him to a doctor who'll attend him and who'll hold his tongue, which is more to the purpose. It'll mean a few guineas, but 'twill be money well spent." "See to it, then, Rofflash. Where's the man to be found?" "His house is on London Bridge. The tide's running down fairly, and the waterman ought to get us to the bridge in half an hour." Dorrimore assented gloomily.
He recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink, very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him. Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore, his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices. Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very bad luck.
In partial explanation of my feelings regarding Dr. Dorrimore I will relate briefly the circumstances under which I had met him some years before. One evening a half-dozen men of whom I was one were sitting in the library of the Bohemian Club in San Francisco.
Whatever their talk might have been about, just as Dorrimore turned Vane saw Sally tear herself from Captain Jeremy's grasp and hurry away, and he became more than ever persuaded that she had betrayed him. What did it matter? One woman or another they were all the same. He walked apart while Jarvis and Rofflash arranged the preliminaries. His brain was numbed.
If you've the mind to try conclusions a second time, fair and square and no surprises, by God, sir, I'll be pleased to oblige you when you've despatched Mr. Dorrimore." The bully's braggart manner and sneering voice made no impression on Vane. The suspicion that he was the victim of a plot was strengthened by the presence of Rofflash and his words.
She had always had some infatuated young man hovering about her even when she was her mother's drudge at the coffee house in Bedfordbury. Perhaps she inherited flirting from that buxom, good-looking mother who had the reputation of knowing her way quite well where a man was concerned. "Archibald Dorrimore will be Sir Archibald some day," she mused. "It would be rare to be called her ladyship.
The girl's tired eyelids slowly lifted and she looked vaguely into the angry face bending over her. "Tell me what all this means, you jade. What have you been up to? How is it you're in such a state? Who's been making a fool of you? Who's this Dorrimore? Are you married to him or not?" The good lady might have spared herself the trouble of pouring out this torrent of questions.
She has never seen Auburn, and during the weeks whose history as it shaped itself in my brain I have endeavored to relate, was living at her home in Oakland, wondering where her lover was and why he did not write. The other day I saw in the Baltimore Sun the following paragraph: "Professor Valentine Dorrimore, the hypnotist, had a large audience last night.
A thousand pities we couldn't get the coach nearer. Damn His Majesty King George, say I." "Talk under your breath, Mr. Dorrimore, if you must air your traitorous speeches," whispered Rofflash. "You don't seem to know that what you've been saying is little short of 'God save King James, which is treason in any case and doubly dyed treason when uttered in the Royal Park."
But in spite of all that she did not cease to think about her plan and watched for an opportunity when the worst of the rabble should have passed. Suddenly the coach came to a standstill. Shouts and oaths more of the latter than the former were heard, and Dorrimore after fretting and fuming lowered the window on his side and put out his head.
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