"See here, Sprague," he said abruptly; "that was an awkward thing last night—"
"To see me?"
"The general look of it," came laboriously. "You understand I—she—"
"Excuse me," put in the editor, dropping his magazine and backing off.
Shelby anchored him by a lapel.
"We've got to have this out. I want you to understand that she was unwell—despondent—malaria, you know—and resorted to—"
"Laughing gas is your plausible defence."
Shelby went brick-red.
"Be a gentleman," he said.
"Gad!" Sprague quenched a wry smile. "And from you! What are you after?"