"Want to put plenty of heart into you," Morphew jovially admitted, "so you can put it into your stuff tonight."
With reluctance Lanyard detached a ravished gaze from the amber contents of the glass which he had been holding up to the light. Knitting eyebrows now lent accent of apprehensiveness to the query: "My 'stuff'?"
"Sure thing, your stuff; your act, you know, your turn, your job, the little thing you do better'n anything else."
"Monsieur undoubtedly means my shop—the Lone Wolf's craft."
"Call it anything you like," Morphew graciously conceded—"you know what I mean."
"But—I think monsieur said something about tonight—"
"That's right. Tonight's the night."
With undisguised regret Lanyard put aside a barely tasted glass; whereupon Morphew made a noise of expostulation.
"When the Lone Wolf was at his best, monsieur, he never drank anything if he had work in view. I have had too much already, if I am to believe you are not jesting . . ."
"That's something else you're due to learn when you get to know me better—I never joke about serious matters."