“Milton, tell me, have you been drinking?”
“Not y— No, I haven’t. I really can’t come home to work this evening, Agatha, I’m using my study at the university, because I must have access to the library there, for reference. And the starcharts.”
“But, Milton, how about that money for your broadcast? You know it isn’t safe for you to have money in your pocket, especially when you’re feeling like this.”
“It isn’t money, Agatha: It’s a check, and I’ll mail it to you before I go to the office. I won’t cash it myself. How’s that?”
“Well—if you must have access to the library, I suppose you must. Good-by, Milton.”
Dr. Hale went across the street to the drug store. There he bought a stamp and envelope and cashed the twenty-five dollar check. The seventy-five dollar one he put into the envelope and mailed.
Standing beside the mailbox, he glanced up at the early evening sky—shuddered, and hastily lowered his eyes. He took the straightest possible line for the nearest double Scotch.
“Y’ain’t been in for a long time, Dr. Hale,” said Mike, the bartender.
“That I haven’t, Mike. Pour me another.”
“Sure. On the house, this time. We had your broadcast tuned in on the radio just now. It was swell.”