He had come to the dinner in a state of partial
intoxication, which merely made him bad-tempered, but now the spirits
that he had partaken of so plentifully was burning itself into his very
brain.
Doctor Bartholomew took a step toward him.
"Dash it all!" he said under his breath and addressing no one in
particular, "he can't go like that. Can't some of us stop him?"
"Try," put in Lester Stark sententiously, having had previous experiences
of Wynne's mood, so Doctor Bartholomew did try, and got cursed for his
pains. Wynne was struggling into his great, picturesque cloak, a sinister
figure of unsteady gait and blood-shot eye. As he went to the hall and
swung open the front door, Merriton made one last effort to stop him.
"Don't be a fool, Wynne," he said anxiously. "The game's not worth the
candle. Stay where you are and I'll put you up for the night, but in
Heaven's name don't venture out across the Fens now."
Wynne turned and showed him a reddened, congested face from which the
eyes gleamed evilly. Merriton never forgot that picture of him, or the
sudden tightening of the heart-strings that he experienced, the sudden
sensation of foreboding that swept over him.
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