'I am quite willing, when we are in private, to call you Mr. Babbacombe.'
'Call me--what? Mr.--Doug, you're drunk.'
'As usual, you credit me with a condition of mental imbecility for which no degree of drunkenness of which I ever heard could adequately account.'
'What--you talking about? Doug, I'm pretty bad.'
'You seem to be. I've brought the five hundred pounds which you stipulated I should bring if you were not to recover.'
'Five hundred pounds? Doug, I haven't seen that amount of money--Lord knows when.'
'No? Then you shall see it now. Here it is--fifty tens. I thought you would prefer to have the notes all small.'
I placed them between the wasted fingers, which still remained outside the coverlet. They just closed on them, but that was all. His eyes closed too.
'Too late.'
'Too late? What do you mean?'