CHAPTER XVII
MY UNPERSUASIVE MANNER
As I left the house a man came across the pavement as if with the intention of knocking at Philip Lawrence's door. At sight of me coming down the steps he stopped short. It was young Moore. His appearance set the blood tingling in my veins; his hat was cocked at an acute angle on one side of his head; a cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was something in his bearing, and about the way in which he spoke, which showed that he had been drinking.
"What are you doing in that house? You answer me that! Seems to me that you've got a finger in every pie."
He addressed me in tones which were probably audible in Piccadilly.
"Might I ask you, Mr. Moore, to pitch your voice a little lower?"
"You may ask, but as for paying attention to anything you ask—not me. I'm not afraid of
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