Yet I could see no middle course of
conceivable safety, if I held my tongue another moment. So I spoke
up desperately, with the rash resolution which was the novel feature
of my whole conduct on this occasion. But any sheep would be
resolute and rash after dining with Swigger Morrison at his club.
"I wonder if he rang me up?" I exclaimed, as if inspired.
"You, sonny?" echoed Maguire, decanter in hand. "What in hell could
he know about you?"
"Or what could you know about him?" amended the secretary, fixing
me with eyes like drills.
"Nothing," I admitted, regretting my temerity with all. my heart.
"But some one did ring me up about an hour ago. I thought it was
Raffles. I told you I expected to find him here, if you remember."
"But I don't see what that's got to do with the crook," pursued the
secretary, with his relentless eyes boring deeper and deeper into
mine.
"No more do I," was my miserable reply. But there was a certain
comfort in his words, and some simultaneous promise in the quantity
of spirit which Maguire splashed into his glass.
"Were you cut off sudden?" asked the secretary, reaching for the
decanter, as the three of us sat round the octagonal table.
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