At first, as he entered, he felt a qualm of nausea. This passed, to be succeeded by a dull languor. He shook this off and, finding that wheels no longer revolved within his head when he tried to think, he decided that he was fit for work. Pursuing this theory, he settled to his work-table when the door burst open and Andrew Galpin rushed in.
“Where the devil—” he began and started back as from an apparition. “For the love of Mike!” he shouted. “Where did you come from?”
“The Montrose Clark cottage.”
“Go back! Get out! You ought to be in bed.”
“I have been. I’m tired of it.”
“What would Doc Summerfield say?”
“The usual thing: Drink this.’ What do you suppose he’d say to you?”
The general manager was red, perspiring, and disheveled, and there was a vague, wild, and incomprehensible gleam in his eye.
“Me? What’s he got to do with me?”
“How do I know? You don’t look—well, normal.”