he many occasions on which his tongue had played him false
were all forgotten. Besides, he had been drinking more heavily all day
than was his custom.

So Quarrier talked, sparingly, about his new coach, about Billy
Fleetwood's renowned string of hunters, about Ashley Spencer's new
stable and his chances at Saratoga with Roy-a-neh, for which he had paid
a fabulous sum--the sum and the story probably equally fabulous.

Mortimer's head was swimming with ideas; he was also talking a great
deal, much more than he had intended; he was saying things he had not
exactly intended to say, either, in just that way. He realised it,
but he went on, unable to stop his own tongue, the noise of which
intoxicated him.

Once or twice he thought Quarrier looked at him rather strangely; but he
would show Quarrier that he was nobody's fool; he'd show Quarrier that
he was a friend, a good, staunch friend; and that Quarrier had long,
long undervalued him. Waves of sentiment spread through and through him;
his affection for Quarrier dampened his eyes; and still he blabbed on
and on, gazing with brimming eyes upon Quarrier, who sat back silent
and attentive as Mortimer circled and blundered nearer and nearer to the
crucial point of his destination.

Midway in one of his linguistic ellipses Quarrier leaned forward and
caught his arm in a grip of steel. Another man had entered the room.
Mortimer, made partly conscious by the pain of Quarrier's vise-like
grip, was sober enough to recognise the impropriety of his continuing
aloud the veiled story he had been constructing with what he supposed to
be a cunning as matchless as it was impenetrable.

Later he found himself upstairs in a private card-room, facing Quarrier
across a table, and still talking and quenching his increasing thirst.
He knew now what he was telling Quarrier; he was unveiling the parable;
he was stripping metaphor from a carefully precise story. He used
Siward's name presently; presently he used Sylvia's name. A moment
later--or was it an hour?--Quarrier stopped him, coldly, without a
trace of passion, demanding corroborative detail. And Mortimer gave it,
wagging his head and one fat forefinger as emphasis.

"You saw that?" repeated Quarrier, deadly white of a sudden.

"Yes; an' I--"

"At three in the morning?"

"Yes; an' I want--"

"You saw him enter her room?"

"Yes; an' I wan' tersay thish to you, because I'm your fr'en'. Don' wan'
anny fr'en's mine get fooled on