"Be good enough either to draw the cheque, payable to the editor of the Gleaner—who will act in this matter, since I cannot appear—or to decline definitely to do so."
"It will ruin me."
"To decline? I admit that!"
Very shakily, having taken his cheque book from his pocket, Baron Hague drew and signed a cheque for the fabulous, the atrocious sum of £50,000.
A heavy smell—overpowering—crept to his nostrils as he bent forward over the table. He mentally ascribed it to the yellow cigarettes.
He laid down the pen with trembling fingers. That same sense of increasing distances which had heralded the stupor in the cab was coming upon him again. The cell-like room seemed to be receding. Séverac Bablon's voice reached him from a remote distance:
"In future, Israel Hagar, seek to make—better use of your—opportunities."
"Wake up, sir! Hadn't you better be getting home?"
Baron Hague strove to stand. What had happened? Where was he?