“Leave of absence for a sick man.”
“I could not ask for it. Besides, my work will do me good. I should mope and be miserable away.”
“Not on the Swiss Alps.”
“I tell you I will not go,” said Stratton fiercely.
“Very well, I’ll be satisfied with what you have promised. So just draw up that blind and open the window wide.”
Stratton hesitated.
“At once, man. Your promise. The air of Benchers’ Inn is not particularly good; but it’s better than this mephitic odour of stuffiness and gas. Why, Mal, old lad, I can smell the methylated spirits in which you preserve your specimens quite plainly.”
A faint ring of white showed round Stratton’s eyes; but Guest did not notice it, for his back was turned as he made for the window and let in the light and air.
“That’s better. Now go to your bedroom, and make yourself look more like the Malcolm Stratton I know. I’ll be off now. I shall be back at a quarter to seven, and then we’ll go out and have a bit of dinner together.”
“No, no; I could not go.”