Ray sat with his head on his hands, a figure so supremely miserable that any other man than Lew Brady would have felt sorry for him.
“The whole truth is,” began Lew slowly, “that Lola’s very strong for you, boy.”
“Then why did you tell me the other thing? Who was that?” He looked round.
“What is it?” asked Lew. His own nerves were on edge.
“I thought I heard somebody moving.”
“A twig broke. Rabbits, it may be; there are thousands of ’em round here,” said Lew. “No, Lola’s a good girl.” He fished from his pocket a flask, pulled off the cup at the bottom and unscrewed the stopper, holding the flask to the light. “She’s a good girl,” he repeated, “and may she never be anything else.”
He poured out a cupful, looked at the remainder in the bottle.
“I’m going to drink her health. No, you drink first.”
Ray shook his head.
“I don’t like the stuff,” he said.