It was Bindle who saved the situation by saying with regret in his voice: "I lost 'em more'n a year ago, so that can't be."
Dare would often drop in upon me for half an hour's chat. If I were too busy to talk, he would curl himself up in my arm-chair and become as silent as a bird.
One night he was sitting thus when I aroused him from his reverie by banging a stamp on an envelope with an air of finality that told him work was over for that night.
"Finished?" he queried with a smile.
I nodded and lit a cigarette. I was feeling brain-weary and Dare, with that ready sympathy of his which is almost feminine, seemed instinctively to understand that I required my thoughts diverting from the day's work.
"Ever horsewhip a man?" he enquired languidly as he reached for another cigarette.
"No," I replied, scenting a story.
"Well, don't," was the reply.
Dare then proceeded to tell me the story of the one and only horsewhipping in which he had participated. The story came as a godsend, for I had nothing for the next meeting of the Night Club.
I