There had been thunderous applause; at Oona's shouted order even Gog and Magog did some mighty clapping of their steely hands to the delight of the party.
And now that it was all over with and the reaction had begun to set in Scriven asked: "Do you really think we put the idea over to them?"
"With this group? One hundred percent," Oona reassured him. "What do you think, Lee?"
Lee nursed himself out of his settee, every bone in his gaunt frame now was aching with weariness. "I think," he said hoarsely, "It was very convincing, as far as those people are concerned. I think I'm too tired to think. I think I better go now."
"Was there anything the matter with Lee?" Scriven asked after he'd gone.
"No, I guess not. Why?"
"He acted sort of queer with that silver dollar; shouldn't have done it. Almost spoiled the show."
"He's been under a strain; we all were a little daffy by that time."
Scriven nodded and as he did his eyelids closed. They remained closed. Staring at him for a moment, Oona thought that in a stupor of exhaustion his features showed a strange similarity to a contented tiger dreaming of the blood he's drawn in a successful hunt.