“I've got to die.”
“I can't see where you are an exception to the rule. It's expected of everybody—the nasty act of termination. What a vulgar thing death is!”
Lester stood erect—the firelight flashing over his worn countenance. “It's different with me. I've got to die now—now!” With a groan of anguish he flung himself back into the chair while Philip looked at him in astonishment.
“See here. What morbid fancy has hold of you?” he asked. “I must admit I don't like this sort of talk.”
But Lester's face was buried in his hands, only his dry hard gaspings were audible. He gained a degree of control over himself and again faced his companion, saying: “Don't you know what I mean?”
“No, I don't, and that's a fact.”
Lester was silent. Some sentiment of reserve stood between him and the confession he was seeking to make.
“Have you been drinking lately?” Philip questioned gravely.
“Yes—but not to-day.”
“You shouldn't do it. It's anything but good for you.”