“Get what?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing! I—I wasn’t thinking.”
A minute or so after they reached the “Cutlass and Cannon.” Here Mr. Tridge, with obvious effort, forced himself to a normal deportment, thus escaping the curiosity of the few patrons present in the tap-room. Under direction of Mr. Sinnett, he sat down in a quiet corner, and soon, under the influence of his companion’s prescription, became quite animated. A second potion having been swallowed, and a third ordered, to make quite sure that the required dose should lack nothing in strength, Mr. Sinnett coughed delicately and addressed Mr. Tridge in winning accents.
“You were telling me just now, when—when you were taken queer out in the road—that that ferryman didn’t get what he was after.”
“Did I tell you it was the ferryman? I never meant to.”
“Oh, well, you did! But there’s no harm done. A secret is a secret with me. Same as I shan’t tell anyone,” continued Mr. Sinnett, watching his companion very closely, “that what he was after was an Indian idol.”
Mr. Tridge started violently. “’Ow did you know that?” he asked.
“Why, you told me so yourself. Don’t you remember?” returned Mr. Sinnett, with a disarming smile.
“No; I—I don’t remember. My ’ead was going round and round, and— Well, I am a mug!”
He raised his glass and emptied it. Mr. Sinnett, eyeing him with intensity, immediately had the measure refilled.