Joe sniffed.
"It doesn't smell like consumption," he said with a sigh. "It smells like rum!"
He hustled her out rather roughly, Nathan Slate regarding him with mournful round eyes. Twenty minutes later Nathan came over and sat down.
"Mr. Joe."
"Yes, Nathan."
"There's something troubles my conscience, Mr. Joe."
"Let her rip!"
"Mr. Joe—"
"I'm waiting!"
Nathan cleared his throat.