“Smith!” I cried—“have you found anything?”
He stood there in the gray light of the hallway, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, an old trick of his.
The bronzed face looked very gaunt, I thought, and his eyes were bright with that febrile glitter which once I had disliked, but which I had learned from experience were due to tremendous nervous excitement. At such times he could act with icy coolness and his mental faculties seemed temporarily to acquire an abnormal keenness. He made no direct reply; but—
“Have you any milk?” he jerked abruptly.
So wholly unexpected was the question, that for a moment I failed to grasp it. Then—
“Milk!” I began.
“Exactly, Petrie! If you can find me some milk, I shall be obliged.”
I turned to descend to the kitchen, when—
“The remains of the turbot from dinner, Petrie, would also be welcome, and I think I should like a trowel.”
I stopped at the stairhead and faced him.