"It is serious. Of all the improbable, dime novel, hellish—But tell me, Bingle: how much do you know?"
"How much do I know about what?"
"Didn't that fellow blab anything to you last night?"
"Bla—blab?"
Force pointed to a chair. "Sit down. Are you sure no one can hear what I'm saying?"
"No one but yours truly," said Mr. Bingle, assuming a jauntiness he did not feel. He sat down, his back as stiff as a board.
His visitor leaned forward, his hands grasping the arms of the chair. "Well, I'll tell you something, Bingle, that will paralyse you. I—I didn't sleep a wink last night."
"That doesn't paralyse me. Neither did I—"
"This is no time to be funny, Bingle," said the other roughly. "Do you want to know what kept me awake all night, suffering the torments of the damned?"
"I do," responded Mr. Bingle, casting a quick glance at Mr. Force's jaw. He knew what it was to have a toothache.