"It is altogether as you care to take it."
"If you don't like the way you've been handled, you've only got yourself to blame. I've given you every chance to come through like a gentleman—"
"But constituted yourself judge of whether I did or not."
The wooden set of Morphew's features became, if possible, more than ever marked, the puffed lids curtained more jealously those repellant eyes, his ruminative way with the cigar knew a momentary break.
With a vaguely innocent smile Lanyard snuggled down into luxurious upholstery and utilized the wait to look the room over with intelligent interest in the taste which had ruled its composition. A surprisingly handsome library, decorated and furnished with a dignity in no degree oppressive: all at wide odds with an environment such as one might have expected that bejewelled block of flesh to create for itself.
But the ominous pause was beginning to irk Pagan's nerves. He moved restlessly from his station at Morphew's back and laid hands upon a decanter which, with glasses and a siphon bottle, occupied a tray on one end of the library table.
"How about a little snifter, what?" he suggested with a leer overshoulder.
"Thank you," Lanyard returned politely—"but one recalls too well your black art as a bar-tender, monsieur; one hesitates to risk another waking up to find oneself accused of—it might well be—murder."
As if involuntarily, but without moving a superficial muscle, Morphew permitted a meditative rumble to escape him: "Murder . . ." And in a startled movement not wholly affected Lanyard sat up.
"Pardon, monsieur! one ought to keep a better guard upon one's tongue lest one put ideas into your head."