"Poor devil!" he said, sitting down at his desk and fishing a box of cigars from one of the drawers.
"Takes it hard," commented Hartt.
"You would, too, at his age; he's barely twenty-five."
"Must feel more or less like a fellow whose wife has run off with his best friend."
"No comparison," said Bushnell bluntly. "Go out, get yourself arrested for a brutal murder you didn't commit, get tried and sentenced to death within six months, the precise date being left to the discretion of the executioner—then you'll know how he feels."
"If you ask me"—Greyerson handed round the box—"he feels pretty shaky and abused, and he wants a drink badly—the same as me."
He unlocked a cellaret.
"Married?" Hartt inquired.
"No. That's the only mitigating circumstance," said Greyerson, distributing glasses. "He's quite alone in the world, as far as I know—no near relatives, at least."
"Well off?"