His brain was numbed. He did not care whether he lived or died. Five
minutes later Vane was joined by Jarvis.
"We've settled the business very comfortably," said Jarvis. "Seven
o'clock at Battersea Fields. It's now nearly midnight. We'll get a rest
at the nearest tavern; have a few hours sleep, and you'll wake as fresh
as a lark."
Vane made no reply, and Jarvis sliding his arm within that of his
companion, led him out of the gardens. They took the direction of
Wandsworth, keeping by the river bank, and Jarvis made a halt at a
tumbledown rookery of a waterside tavern--the "Feathers." Vane was so
overwhelmed by the prospect of a possible tragedy that he scarcely
noticed the dirt, the squalidness, the hot and foetid air and the
evil-looking fellows who stared at them when he and Jarvis entered.
On the strength of the order of a bottle of wine the landlord gave them
the use of his own room, and Vane threw himself on a hard settee, but
not to sleep. He was worn and haggard when it was time to rise, and
Jarvis called for brandy. It was vile stuff, and Vane swallowed scarcely
a mouthful.
The bill paid, they got into a boat moored off the bank opposite the
tavern.
It was only just daylight. A slight mist hung upon the river, and the
marshy land on the south side and the scattered houses leading to
Chelsea on the north side looked dreary enough. The only sound was the
plash of the waterman's sculls and the grinding of the rowlocks.
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