He sat there a long while, but finally he roused, got up, opened the ugly walnut cupboard in his room, drew out a bottle and a glass and poured out for himself a generous draft of whisky. He drank the stuff without water, raw, and when he had taken advantage of his brief seclusion to light a cigarette, inhaling its smoke eagerly, he began to pace the floor again. Two or three times after that he stopped by the cupboard and took the bottle down; at last he did not put it back in its hiding place, but set it out openly on his desk. Now, the times he passed it without drinking were growing fewer and fewer.
Hale was the first to return. Garwood had just halted by his desk and poured himself another drink, and he stood with his hand still on the bottle when Hale burst into the room. The man’s face plainly foreboded evil tidings, and he stood and stared at Garwood without speaking, as if he disliked to tell him what was on his tongue. Garwood had raised the glass, but with it at his lips he stopped and looked up to say:
“What in hell’s the matter with you, Hale; are you drunk or crazy, or have you seen a ghost?”
“I’ve seen—Bailey.”
“Bailey!” Garwood slowly lowered the glass to the desk, as if Hale had seen something more than a ghost.
“Yes.”
“Out on—what’s that long street? He was with Rankin, goin’ west.”
“Over to the woolen mills?” Garwood asked.
“I suppose so,” said Hale. “You see, after Crawford and I’d got a bite to eat over at that restaurant on the other side of the square—what’s the name of it?”
“Oh, damn the name!” exclaimed Garwood. “Go on.”