“Shot, I fancy,” he muttered.
Gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored to his limbs, went over to the place where she lay.
“Have you a flask?” he asked. The little Artist eyed him suspiciously.
“Are you a newspaperman?”
“No, an art student.”
“Nothing to do with newspapers?”
“No.”
“I don’t drink,” said the queer little person.
“I never said you did,” said Gethryn. “Have you a flask, or haven’t you?”
The stranger slowly produced one, and poured a few drops into his pink palm.