The game was in my hands.
"I guess you mean you've got brains enough to withstand it."
Would the dinner never come to an end? I thought. My body seemed to grow old with the minutes. At last the waiter cleared the table. When he had gone for a liqueur, Mr. F. took some letters from his pocket. From the packet he selected a piece of printed matter. He laid it face down upon the table while he replaced the letters. Then he looked at me, drumming with his fingers over the spot where the clipping lay. The waiter returned. Mr. F. drained the cognac glass and called for another. While it was being brought he folded his arms upon the table and leaned toward me.
"I wonder whether I'd better show you something...."
I assumed the same attitude; it was conducive to confidence.
"Show me what?"
His drumming became louder.
"No, I guess I won't!" ...
"Now, I call that unkind—to pique my curiosity and leave me suspended in mid-air."
He folded the clipping and rattled it between his fingers.