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The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know. But I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely chastising you, on condition—" "You may do as you please, master," interrupted Jack, thrusting his hand into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; "but I wouldn't advise you to lay hands on me again.
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