“I'll have one, too,” she said, with a motion toward the decanter next her.
He threw up his arms. “Oh well, go on. I'll listen as well as I can.” He sank down in his chair and stretched his little feet out toward the fire. “Go on!”
She hesitated before she began. “Do you know who brought you home last night, Alan?”
“Yes,” he answered, quickly, “Westover.”
“Yes, Mr. Westover brought you, and you wouldn't stay. You don't remember anything else?”
“No. What else?”
“Nothing for you, if you don't remember.” She sat in silent hopelessness for a while, and her brother's eyes dwelt on the decanters, which she seemed to have forgotten. “Alan!” she broke out, abruptly, “I'm worried, and if I can't tell you about it there's no one I can.”
The appeal in her voice must have reached him, though he seemed scarcely to have heeded her words. “What is it?” he asked, kindly.
“You went back to the Enderbys' after Mr. Westover brought you home, and then some one else had to bring you again.”
“How do you know?”