“Have a peg?” asked Cleigh.
“Never touch the stuff.”
“That’s so; I had forgotten.” 31
Cleigh never looked upon this man’s face without recalling del Sarto’s John the Baptist—supposing John had reached forty by the way of reckless passions. The extraordinary beauty was still there, but as though behind a blurred pane of glass.
“Well?” said Cleigh, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“There’s the devil to pay—all in a half hour.”
“You haven’t got it?” Cleigh blazed out.
“Morrissy—one of the squarest chaps in the world—ran amuck the last minute. Tried to double-cross me, and in the rough-and-tumble that followed he was more or less banged up. We hurried him to a hospital, where he lies unconscious.”
“But the beads!”
“Either he dropped them in the gutter, or they repose on the floor of a Chinese shop in Woosung Road. I’ll be there bright and early—never you fear. Don’t know what got into Morrissy. Of course I’ll look him up in the morning.”