Then Guest turned to his friend:
“Now,” he said coldly, “give me your arm. No; stop. Where are your keys?”
Stratton raised his head sharply.
“Where are your keys?”
“What for?”
“I want to get the spirits to give you a dram.”
“No, no,” said Stratton firmly. “Now go!”
“Of course,” said Guest bitterly. “That’s my way when you’re in trouble. You miserable fool! You madman!” he roared, flashing out suddenly with passion. “What is it? Two years ago, when I came here and found you with that cyanide bottle on the table, and the glass ready with its draught, I stopped you then, you coward. This time you were alone to attempt your wretched work.”
Stratton glared at him wildly.
“And here have we all been scared to death, fearing that you had been attacked. The admiral said you were a miserable coward, and you are. Where is your manhood? Where is your honour, to carry on like this with poor Myra till the last moment, and then do this? Hang it, man, why didn’t you aim straight and end it, instead of bringing us to such a pitiful scene as this?”