He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe.
"Very pleasant, little drop like this—night cap on the quiet. But not often."
His content sought expression in a smile.
"Dolly's off the hootch."
George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart.
"May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you call it?"
Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder.
"Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh."
"I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?"
Dalrymple waved his glass.