He looked slyly at Ken and smiled.
“You have no idea, sir,” he said, “what trouble I have to get this little fellow to go to bed.”
Ken didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His mouth was as dry as dust.
Sweeting picked up the Pekinese. His black eyes scrutinized Ken.
“I believe it has stopped raining,” he went on, gently stroking the Pekinese’s head. “Such a heavy storm.” He looked at the cheap, nickelplated watch he wore on his fat, hairy wrist. “I had no idea it was so late. It’s nearly two.”
Ken made a tremendous effort to control his panic. He moved across the landing to the head of the next flight of stairs.
“I must apologize. I talk too much,” Sweeting went on, moving after Ken. “You will excuse me. It is a lonely man’s failing. If it wasn’t for Leo I should be quite alone.”
Ken kept on, fighting down the increasing urge to rush madly down the stairs and out of the house.
“You wouldn’t care to come in and have a drink with me?” Sweeting asked, catching hold of Ken’s sleeve. “It would be a kindness. It’s not often I have the opportunity to be a host.”
“No, diank you,” Ken managed to get out, pulled his arm free and went on down the stairs.