Tommy walked across the room to a corner cupboard.  “You’ll have a drink, won’t you?” he asked; “there’s whisky and brandy, and Grand Marnier, and I’ve got a bottle of port somewhere if you’d care for a glass.”

There was a short pause.  Then in my natural voice I remarked quietly and distinctly:  “You were always a drunken old blackguard, Tommy.”

The effect was immense.  For a moment Tommy remained perfectly still, his mouth open, his eyes almost starting out of his head.  Then quite suddenly he sat down heavily on the couch, clutching a bottle of whisky in one hand and a tumbler in the other.

“Well, I’m damned!” he whispered.

“Never mind, Tommy,” I said cheerfully; “you’ll be in the very best society.”

CHAPTER XIII

REGARDING MR. BRUCE LATIMER

For perhaps a second Tommy remained motionless; then sitting up he removed the cork, and poured himself out about a quarter of a tumbler of neat spirit.  He drained this off at a gulp, and put down both the glass and the bottle.

“God deliver us!” he observed; “is it really you?”

I nodded.  “What’s left of me, Tommy.”

He jumped to his feet, and the next moment he was crushing my hands with a grip that would have broken some people’s fingers.  “You old ruffian!” he muttered; “I always said you’d do something like this.  Lord alive, it’s good to see you, though!” Then, pulling me up out of the chair, he caught me by the shoulders and stared incredulously into my face.  “But what the devil’s happened?  What have you done to yourself?”

“I know what I’m going to do to myself,” I replied.  “I am going to get outside some of that drink you were talking about—­if there’s any left.”

With something between a laugh and a choke he let me go, and crossing to the couch picked up the whisky and splashed out a generous tot into the glass.

“Here you are—­and I’m hanged if I don’t have another one myself.  I believe I could drink the whole bottle without turning a hair.”

“I’m quite sure you could, Tommy,” I said, “unless you’ve deteriorated.”

We raised our tumblers and clinked them together with a force that cracked mine from the rim to the bottom.  I drained off the contents, however, before they could escape, and flung the broken glass into the fireplace.

“It would have been blasphemous to drink out of it again in any case,” I said.

With a big, happy laugh Tommy followed my example.  Then he came up again and caught me by the arm, as though to make sure that I was still there.

“Neil, old son,” he said, “I’m so glad to see you that I shall start wrecking the blessed studio in a minute.  For God’s sake tell me what it all means.”

“Sit down, then,” I said; “sit down and give me a chance.  It’s—­it’s a hell of a yarn, Tommy.”

He laughed again, and letting go my arm threw himself back into the easy-chair.