“What are we ruining our eyes with to-night?” he demanded.
I held up the treasure.
“'Victory,'” he read. “Good! He'll like Conrad.”
Perceiving what was expected, I fulfilled the requirements by asking: “Who will like Conrad?”
“The Gnome.”
I remembered that I had not seen Leon Coventry since the day he passed me with the girl who had youth and spring and terror in her face.
“Am I to loan it to him?”
“You're to read it to him.”
“When?”
“To-night. It's your turn to sit up.”