“That’s right, too.” Leary nodded. “I brought him the booze he ordered, and then he said he wanted to wait for a friend and have a private talk with him. He chucked me a buck for the booze and told me to keep the change. That looked good to me and like more coming, so I told him he could stay as long as he liked, and would not be interrupted.”
“I see,” said Patsy, now sure that Leary was telling him the truth. “His friend came, all right, and they went away together. There were three in the car when——”
“But where’s the booze glass?” cried Leary, who now had turned toward the table. “That ought to be here. They would not steal a whisky glass, unless——”
“Stop a bit!” Patsy interrupted. “It was thrown into the fireplace. Here are pieces of it, and—holy smoke! This cat is dead!”
Patsy had caught sight of it a moment before, and he at first had thought the animal was asleep. A second look, however, evoked the last startling exclamation and brought Leary to his knees near his lifeless pet.
“Good God! What’s the meaning of this?” he growled, with a scowl, convincing Patsy of his sincerity. “Dead as an iron bolt! What’s the meaning of it?”
“Has the cat been sick?” Patsy inquired.
“Sick—no!” cried Leary. “There’s been nothing the matter with him. He was getting a bit old, but was well enough. Poor old Gimblet!” Leary added, with genuine feeling.
“Was he in this room when you were here?” asked Patsy.
“No. He was asleep in the hall.”