Durkin had never seen chloral hydrate take effect, and Eddie Crawford realized that his friend was foolishly preparing to kill time.
“Here, boss, don’t you go to sleep in here,” called out Eddie, for already the Central Office man was showing signs of bodily distress.
Even the gaunt and threadbare-looking curb-broker was gazing with wondering eyes at the two lolling figures. Then, having satisfied both his hunger and his curiosity, the frugal luncher hurried away.
The hand of steel dropped from Durkin’s coat-sleeve.
“I’m—I’m queer!” murmured O’Reilly, brokenly, as he sagged back in his chair.
Durkin was watching the whitening faces, the quivering eyelids, the slowly stiffening limbs.
“My God, Eddie, you haven’t killed them?” he cried, as he turned to hand over his fee.
Eddie laughed unconcernedly.
“They’ll be dead enough, till we get out of this, anyway!” he said, already taking off his apron and drawing down a window-curtain in front of the table in the corner.
“What’s that for?” demanded Durkin, nervously, as the bartender dodged round to the telephone booth.