Mr. Cecil was looking at the next photograph, and Colin took advantage of his preoccupation. The big bunch of keys by which this private, this very private, drawer was opened still dangled from the lock.
“And this one,” said Mr. Cecil, applying himself to the liberal dose.
“But what a glorious creature,” said Colin. “May I help myself?”
Mr. Cecil had a confused idea that Colin had finished his first drink and wanted another. So he finished his own and wanted another.
“Of course, my dear boy,” he said. “Just a night-cap, eh? A drop of whisky at bed-time, I’ve noticed, makes one sleep all the sounder.”
Colin was on the apex of watchfulness. Photograph after photograph was handed to him, but long before they came to the end of them the effects of the night-cap were apparent in Mr. Cecil. The keys still hung from the lock, and Colin, as he replaced the last of this unblushing series, got up and stood between this table-drawer and his host.
“And that statuette there?” he said, pointing to the other side of the room. “Surely we’ve seen a photograph of that?”
Mr. Cecil chuckled again; but the chuckle could hardly emerge from his sleep-slack mouth.
“Ah, I’ll tell you about that to-morrow,” he said, looking round at it.
Colin, with one of his caressing, boyish movements, put his hand on Mr. Cecil’s shoulder, and ever so imperceptibly drew him towards the door.