McTaggart seized the decanter from off the sideboard, his face relaxing into a smile.
"Help yourself—confound yon! I was half asleep, after a somewhat late night."
"Sorry." The visitor grinned as he spoke. "Better for you, sonnie, up with the dawn. How doth the busy little bee—or rather how did he sacrifice to the gods his heritage of sleep?"
"In a silly game that's called chemin-de-fer, varied by supper and fifth-rate fizz."
"Any luck?" Bethune carefully filled the flask. "How's that for a steady hand?" He screwed in the stopper.
"More than mine is! Yes, I won—forty pounds odd—as far as I remember."
"The devil you did!" Bethune stared—"you wouldn't like to lend me a fiver, would you?"
"D'you mean it?" McTaggart turned toward his room, but his visitor caught him by the arm.
"Don't be an ass! I was only rotting. Nice stuff that——" he fingered the dressing-gown—"lapped in luxury—and wins forty pounds!"
His brown eyes rested for a second affectionately on his friend's weary face.