y uncle from something
more than time-wasting intrusions. I found the little man alone in the
inner office pretending to work, but really brooding. He was looking
yellow and deflated.

"Lord!" he said at the sight of me. "You're lean, George. It makes that
scar of yours show up."

We regarded each other gravely for a time.

"Quap," I said, "is at the bottom of the Atlantic. There's some
bills--We've got to pay the men."

"Seen the papers?"

"Read 'em all in the train."

"At bay," he said. "I been at bay for a week.... Yelping round me....
And me facing the music. I'm feelin' a bit tired."

He blew and wiped his glasses.

"My stomack isn't what it was," he explained. "One finds it--these
times. How did it all happen, George? Your Marconigram--it took me in
the wind a bit."

I told him concisely. He nodded to the paragraphs of my narrative and at
the end he poured something from a medicine bottle into a sticky little
wineglass and drank it. I became aware of the presence of drugs, of
three or four small bottles before him among his disorder of papers, of
a faint elusively familiar odour in the room.

"Yes," he said, wiping his lips and recorking the bottle. "You've done
your best, George. The luck's been against us."

He reflected, bottle in hand. "Sometimes the luck goes with you and
sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it doesn't. And then where are you?
Grass in the oven! Fight or no fight."

He asked a few questions and then his thoughts came back to his own
urgent affairs. I tried to get some comprehensive account of the
situation from him, but he would not give it.

"Oh, I wish I'd had you. I wish I'd had you, George. I've had a lot on
my hands. You're clear headed at times."

"What has happened?"

"Oh! Boom!--infernal things."

"Yes, but--how? I'm just off the sea, remember."

"It'd worry me too much to tell you now. It's tied up in a skein."

He muttered something to himself and mused darkly, and roused himself to
say--

"Besides--you'd better keep out of it. It's getting tight. Get 'em
talking. Go down to Crest Hill and fly. That's YOUR affair."

For a time his manner set free queer anxieties in my brain again.

I will confess that that Mordet Island nightmare of mine returned,
and as I looked at him his hand went out for the drug again. "Stomach,
George," he said.

"I been fightin' on that. Every man fights on some thing--gives way
somewheres--head, heart, liver--something. Zzzz. Gives w