I said nothing, for the very good reason that my words stuck in my throat.
"Give me a little creme de menthe, will you, please?" said he, after a moment's pause.
"I haven't a drop in the house," I said, relieved to think that this wonderful being could come down to anything so earthly.
"Pshaw, Hiram!" he ejaculated, apparently in disgust. "Don't be mean, and, above all, don't lie. Why, man, you've got a bottle full of it in your hand! Do you want it all?"
He was right. Where it came from I do not know; but, beyond question, the graceful, slim-necked bottle was in my right hand, and my left held a liqueur-glass of exquisite form.
"Say," I gasped, as soon as I was able to collect my thoughts, "what are your terms?"
"Wait a moment," he answered. "Let me do a little mind-reading before we arrange preliminaries."
"I haven't much of a mind to read tonight," I answered, wildly.
[Illustration]
"You're right there," said he. "It's like a dime novel, that mind of yours to-night. But I'll do the best I can with it. Suppose you think of your favorite poem, and after turning it over in your mind carefully for a few minutes, select two lines from it, concealing them, of course, from me, and I will tell you what they are."