Ross watched Bascomb as he manipulated the bottles with a practiced hand. Wallie’s genial countenance expressed such unruffled satisfaction and good-will that David found it difficult to begin. He accepted a proffered cigar, bit it tentatively, turned it in his fingers, and without lighting it, began abruptly.
“Wallie, about that asbestos—” He paused as Bascomb looked up quickly from the glass he held. “Do you know of any reason why we should continue to fight this thing out in the dark?”
Bascomb tapped the glass with his finger-nails. “Not now,” he replied coolly.
“Was there ever any good reason for it?”
Bascomb shifted his position, turning toward the window with an absent stare. “Yes, I think there was.”
“Of course, it was practically your find, or Harrigan’s,” said David; “but don’t you think your last trip to Lost Farm was playing it a trifle raw, under the circumstances?”
“Of your being in the hospital?”
“Yes.”
Bascomb colored slightly, smiled as he recalled his use of a similar expression in speaking to Ross once, and replied,—
“Governor’s orders, Davy.”