"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 shadow? You didn't leave a shadow of doubt?"
"No; I waited till the substance came out."
"It was Arthur Constant."
"You are a magician! You—you terrify me. Yes, it was he."