He could not endure a long look at the thing, and
allowed his gaze to wander to the panelled woodwork of the bar.
"Fumed oak," he suggested to the waster.
But the waster pushed one of the slender-stemmed glasses toward him.
"There's the life-line, old top; cling to it! Here's a go!"
Bean drank. The beverage was icy, but it warmed him to life. The mere
white of an egg mixed with a liquid of such perfect innocence that he
recalled it from his soothing-syrup days.
"Have one with me," he said in what he knew to be a faultless bar
manner.
"Oh, I say old top," the waster protested.
"One," said Bean stubbornly.
The attendant was again busy.
"Better be careful," warned the waster. "Those things come to you and
steal their hands into yours like little innocent children, but--".
They drank. Bean felt himself bold for any situation. He would carry the
farce through if they insisted on it. He no longer planned to elude the
waster. They were in the speeding car.
"Fumed eggs!" murmured Bean approvingly.
They were inside that desolated house, the door closed fatefully upon
them. The waster disappeared. Bean heard the flapper's voice calling
cheerily to him from above stairs. A footman disapprovingly ushered him
to the midst of an immense drawing-room of most ponderous grandeur, and
left him to perish.
He sat on the edge of a chair and tried to clear his mind about this
enormity he was going to commit.
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