Shaynor changed. She leaned
confidently across the counter.
"But I can't," I heard him whisper uneasily--the flush on his cheek was
dull red, and his eyes shone like a drugged moth's. "I can't. I tell you
I'm alone in the place."
"No, you aren't. Who's _that_? Let him look after it for half an hour. A
brisk walk will do you good. Ah, come now, John."
"But he isn't----"
"I don't care. I want you to; we'll only go round by St. Agnes. If you
don't----"
He crossed to where I stood in the shadow of the dispensary counter, and
began some sort of broken apology about a lady-friend.
"Yes," she interrupted. "You take the shop for half an hour--to oblige
_me_, won't you?"
She had a singularly rich and promising voice that well matched her
outline.
"All right," I said. "I'll do it--but you'd better wrap yourself up, Mr.
Shaynor."
"Oh, a brisk walk ought to help me. We're only going round by the church."
I heard him cough grievously as they went out together.
I refilled the stove, and, after reckless expenditure of Mr. Cashell's
coal, drove some warmth into the shop. I explored many of the glass-
knobbed drawers that lined the walls, tasted some disconcerting drugs,
and, by the aid of a few cardamoms, ground ginger, chloric-ether, and
dilute alcohol, manufactured a new and wildish drink, of which I bore a
glassful to young Mr. Cashell, busy in the back office. He laughed shortly
when I told him that Mr.
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