"You should try Elliman's—horse for choice."
"I did, and I stank so of turpentine I was quite ashamed to lie with myself."
"You're not ashamed to lie here," said some feeble punster.
"No, it's my profession. I'm a sporting prophet."
Gobion suddenly remembered that he had heard nothing about the mass of copy that had been sent out some days before.
"Has Mr. Sturtevant been in to-night?" he asked the barmaid.
"No, I haven't seen him for two or three days," she said.
Gobion went quickly out into the Strand and walked to Sturtevant's rooms. The gas flamed on the dingy staircase, making a hissing noise in the silence, and shining on the white paint of the names above the door—Mr. Mordaunt Sturtevant, Mr. Thompson Jones, Mr. Gordon.
The "oak" was open, so Gobion went in, pushing aside the swing door at the end of the little passage.
A strong smell of brandy struck him in the face. He walked in, and looked round the screen by the fire, starting back for a moment with a sick horror of what he saw.