“You ’wake again?” Cranshaw’s voice bubbled out sleepily. “What’s the matter?”
“I want a drink, that’s all,” came the half-shamed answer.
“No more whisky in the house—we finished up the last of it to-night. Go to sleep and quit your infernal nonsense.”
“You’re sure there’re no poisonous things around?”
Cranshaw did not answer. The other repeated the question, his voice beginning insensibly to climb with the last words.
This time Cranshaw replied, but took no immediate heed of the question itself.
“Say, Hobson, I’ve just been thinking about something. You remember that mess I got into down at Auckland? I heard the other day that it was you who stole that money yourself. That’s true, isn’t it?”
The other held silence for a moment, until the ghastly symphony protruded into his brain.
“I—I wanted Agnes,” came the hoarse words.
Cranshaw smiled to himself.