“Well, I can think of one at any rate,” said Mr. Doyle thirstily. “Blood! When all’s said and done, there’s nothing like blood. The river was all right, but blood is well known to be thicker. Some blood, please, somebody!”
“No, I’m hanged if I will,” said George with decision, catching the predatory gleam in his eye. “I’ve done my share.”
“But only in red ink, George,” Mr. Doyle pointed out wistfully. But George, muttering about “this infernal beard,” was already on his way upstairs and to the bathroom.
“I suppose you haven’t got a spot of blood to spare, have you?” Mr. Doyle inquired politely of his host.
“Pat, I won’t have you after my husband’s blood,” Cynthia interposed.
“Besides,” added her husband, “I gave away most of mine yesterday. I’m afraid I’m almost bloodless at the moment.”
“And it’s practically useless trying to get any out of a stone, I understand,” said Mr. Doyle thoughtfully. “How exceedingly awkward. I shall have to furnish some myself. I take it that you have at any rate a lethal weapon of some sort on the premises; a safety razor, for instance. Lead me to the slaughter, then, please.”
“Don’t bleed to death, darling one, will you?” remarked Dora with anxiety.
“Dora, you touch me,” said her fiancé with emotion. “This solicitude is admirable. No, for your sake, my dearest, I will try very hard not to bleed to death.”
“I was thinking of the furniture we’re going to get out of this,” retorted his fiancée frankly. “We don’t want it wasted.”