"Always one shadow?"
"No, sir. Once or twice, two."
"Ah, you had been drinking."
"On my life, not. I have sworn off the treacherous wine-cup."
"That's right. Beer is bad for poets. It makes their feet shaky. Whose was the second shadow?"
"A man's."
"Naturally. Mortlake's, perhaps?"
"Impossible. He was still striking eight hours."
"You found out whose? You didn't leave it a shadow of doubt?"
"No; I waited till the substance came out."