“But he isn’t——”
“I don’t care. I want you to; we’ll only go round by St. Agnes. If you don’t——”
He crossed to where I stood in the shadow of the dispensary counter, and began some sort of broken apology about a lady-friend.
“Yes,” she interrupted. “You take the shop for half an hour—to oblige me, won’t you?”
She had a singularly rich and promising voice that well matched her outline.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it—but you’d better wrap yourself up, Mr. Shaynor.”
“Oh, a brisk walk ought to help me. We’re only going round by the church.” I heard him cough grievously as they went out together.
I refilled the stove, and, after reckless expenditure of Mr. Cashell’s coal, drove some warmth into the shop. I explored many of the glass-knobbed drawers that lined the walls, tasted some disconcerting drugs, and, by the aid of a few cardamoms, ground ginger, chloric-ether, and dilute alcohol, manufactured a new and wildish drink, of which I bore a glassful to young Mr. Cashell, busy in the back office. He laughed shortly when I told him that Mr. Shaynor had stepped out—but a frail coil of wire held all his attention, and he had no word for me bewildered among the batteries and rods. The noise of the sea on the beach began to make itself heard as the traffic in the street ceased. Then briefly, but very lucidly, he gave me the names and uses of the mechanism that crowded the tables and the floor.
“When do you expect to get the message from Poole?” I demanded, sipping my liquor out of a graduated glass.
“About midnight, if everything is in order. We’ve got our installation-pole fixed to the roof of the house. I shouldn’t advise you to turn on a tap or anything tonight. We’ve connected up with the plumbing, and all the water will be electrified.” He repeated to me the history of the agitated ladies at the hotel at the time of the first installation.