"No, there are no letters. Mr. McGowan was here,
but I told him you wouldn't be home till late."
"Yes, I saw him," replied Garry, dropping his voice suddenly to a
monotone, an expression of pain followed by a shade of anxiety
settling on his face: McGowan and his affairs were evidently
unpleasant subjects. At this instant the cry of a child was heard.
Garry roused himself and turned his head.
"Listen--that's baby crying! Better go to her, Cory,"
Garry waited until his wife had left the room, then he rose from,
his chair, crossed to the sideboard, poured out three-quarters of
a glass of raw whiskey and drank it without drawing a breath.
"That's the first to-day, Jack. I dare not touch it when I'm on a
strain like this. Can't think clearly, and I want my head,--all of
it. There's a lot of sharks down in New York,--skin you alive if
they could. I beg your pardon, old man,--have a drop?"
Jack waved his hand in denial, his eyes still on his friend: "Not
now, Garry, thank you."
Garry dropped the stopper into the decanter, pushed back the empty
tumbler and began pacing the floor, halting now and then to toe
some pattern in the carpet, talking all the time to himself in
broken sentences, like one thinking aloud.
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