With something between a laugh and a choke he let me go, and crossing to the couch picked up the whisky and splashed out a generous tot into the glass.
"Here you are—and I'm hanged if I don't have another one myself. I believe I could drink the whole bottle without turning a hair."
"I'm quite sure you could, Tommy," I said, "unless you've deteriorated."
We raised our tumblers and clinked them together with a force that cracked mine from the rim to the bottom. I drained off the contents, however, before they could escape, and flung the broken glass into the fireplace.
"It would have been blasphemous to drink out of it again in any case,"
I said.
With a big, happy laugh Tommy followed my example. Then he came up again and caught me by the arm, as though to make sure that I was still there.
"Neil, old son," he said, "I'm so glad to see you that I shall start wrecking the blessed studio in a minute. For God's sake tell me what it all means."
"Sit down, then," I said; "sit down and give me a chance. It's—it's a hell of a yarn, Tommy."
He laughed again, and letting go my arm threw himself back into the easy-chair.
"It would be," he said.