Mr. Turnbull thrust his hands in his pockets and took a turn or two up and down the room. His brows were knitted and his lips pursed. In the presence of this mental stress Mr. Blundell preserved a respectful silence.
"We'll all four go for a walk on the quay on Sunday afternoon," said Mr. Turnbull, at last.
"On the chance?" inquired his staring friend.
"On the chance," assented the other; "it's just possible Daly might fall in."
"He might if we walked up and down five million times," said Blundell, unpleasantly.
"He might if we walked up and down three or four times," said Mr. Turnbull, "especially if you happened to stumble."
"I never stumble," said the matter-of-fact Mr. Blundell. "I don't know anybody more sure-footed than I am."
"Or thick-headed," added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull.
Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his friend had been drinking.
"Stumbling," said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort "stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody. You trip your foot against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and you off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him. He can't swim a stroke."