“What did he say?”
Sharp hesitated, “Well, sir,” he replied at last, solemnly, “I should say he contaminated the wire, sir!”
* * * * *
In common justice it should be stated here that Alexander Symington was not a faithful slave to alcohol. As a rule he kept the upper hand. A full record of his adult life, however, would show that at long intervals and at times of extreme excitement, he lost his grip, fell, and simply wallowed. His collapse on this occasion was probably the result of his converting a hundred Zeniths into nearly five hundred pounds sterling. With pockets full of notes and gold, and with the sure prospect of being able to refill them as soon as emptied—refill them over and over again—it is small wonder that he became reckless in an abnormal degree. At all events, the money was not in his pockets for an hour when, with the assistance of a couple of fellows no finer-souled than himself, he entered upon a bout of dissipation as wild as it was varied. Even Kitty was forgotten. . . .
And now he was in process of “coming to himself”—and a very unpleasing process it was. Physically, though weakened, he was less disorganized than might have been expected; mentally, however, his state was that of extreme annoyance with himself and savage resentment against the world in general, and two persons in particular. He could not remember all the idiotic acts he had committed in the course of those crazy days and nights, but he was clearly and disagreeably aware that besides squandering four hundred and seventy pounds, he had presented his two boon companions with a hundred Zeniths apiece for no reason or purpose that he could soberly name. He was further tormented by the bitter reflection that he had wasted ten valuable days. For all he knew, Kitty, in that period, might have put herself beyond his reach for good and all. Also he had lately received from Corrie a somewhat peremptory note requesting him to report progress, and breathing a novel and unpleasant spirit of independence.
It was in this harassed condition, and with a still clouded intelligence, that he had obeyed the two impulses in the direction of Kitty, of which we have seen the results—so far. And now, not so many minutes after the telephone episode, he was already cursing himself for a silly fool, and asking what madness was upon him that he should have as good as warned the girl against himself.
He had determined to spend this evening in the sitting-room of his suite reserved in the Kingsway Grand Hotel, a hostelry largely patronized by unattached gentlemen with money to burn. An hour ago he had dined very lightly and temperately, but the reaction from the previous over-indulgence had soon afterwards demanded more stimulant, and a pint bottle of champagne stood on a small table convenient to his easy chair. He was expecting his two friends, but hoping that something—a motor accident, fatal, for choice—might yet prevent them from turning up. It would be many a day before he forgave these two, for although he had freely presented them the Zeniths, he now regarded them about as kindly as if they had robbed him.
He lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand, took a mouthful of wine and lay back in his chair, sluggish of body, sullen of soul. When, a moment later, he heard the door open, he swore under his breath, but did not so much as turn his head. He anticipated a greeting as the door was shut—a bluff greeting of the “What ho” order; wherefore the words that came after a brief pause were something of a shock.
“You swine!”
He started up to see “young Hayward” standing over him, with a look in his eyes that boded anything but goodwill.