Ralston took the hand held out to him, the hand only a few moments before raised against him in anger. It was quite warm. McCullough had done his bit well.
"You weren't yourself. You didn't realize—" he began, and stopped. The room swam before his eyes, and he groped for a chair. With the partial accomplishment of his object, and the consequent physical and mental relaxation, the fatigue of the pursuit and the nervous strain which he had been under took possession of him. He found the chair and sank into it, shutting out the light with his hand. Steadman called McCullough, who quickly brought him something to drink. Somewhat revived, Ralston staggered to his feet eager to escape from the warmth of the overheated room and to finish his task.
"Come along, Steadman. We haven't much time. Less than an hour."
"Poor old chap, you're done up!"
"No, no; I'm all right. We must be getting along."
"But we don't leave, you say, until seven!"
"I know, but we must be getting along."
"Where?"
Ralston hesitated.
"I'll tell you outside." He shuffled toward the door. Steadman followed.