" "Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——" "To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. Fiercely defensive, as usual. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly.
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