in his pocket. "You're in no condition," he said, looking Finch over with distaste, "to listen to a lecture now. Go to your bed and sleep this off. Then I'll have something to say to you."
"If you were mine," said Piers, "I'd hold your head under that tap for fifteen minutes and see if that would waken you up."
"But I'm not yours!" Finch cried, hoarsely. "I'm not anybody's! You talk as though I were a dog."
"I wouldn't insult any dog by comparing him to you!"
Finch's misery became too much for him. He burst into tears. He took out a soiled handkerchief and violently blew his nose.
Wakefield began to scramble down from his step-ladder. "Let me out of here," he said. "I'm getting upset."
He hastened toward the door, but as he reached Piers's side he espied a half sheet of crumpled paper lying on the floor. He bent and examined it.
"What's this, I wonder?" he said.
"Give it here," said Piers.
Wakefield handed it to him, and Piers, smoothing it out, cast his eyes over it. His expression changed.
"This evidently belongs to Finch," he said, slowly. "He must have pulled it out of his pocket with his handkerchief." He looked steadily at Finch. "Now that you're making a clean breast of it, Finch, will you give me leave to read this aloud?"
"Do what you darned please," sobbed Finch.
"It's a note from someone to you." He read, with distinctness:
