The Whitesmith's Parlour
169
Presently we all parted, and Parslewe and I went to the hotel and up to the private sitting-room. There was whisky and soda on the sideboard, and he mixed a couple of glasses, handed me one, and drank his own off at a draught. Then, when I had finished mine, he gave me a questioning look.
"Bed, my lad?" he suggested. "Just so! Come on, then—your room's next to mine; we'll go together." We walked along the corridor outside. "Do you want an idea—not an original one—to go to bed with, Craye?" he asked abruptly, as we reached our doors. "I'll give you one. There are some damned queer things in this world!"
Then, with one of his loud, sardonic peals of laughter, he shook my hand and shot into his room.
