we had supper and sat afterwards sipping curagoa, watching the half-world of London, and listening to the Roumanian band.
Upon my companion the combination of absinthe and champagne had already had its effect. He was bright and merry, declaring that, thanks to me, he had spent a most delightful day.
When the lights went down and a warning voice announced that the time-limit had expired, we ascended in the lift to my sitting-room.
"You want your gloves," I said. "There they are."
They were lying upon the sideboard, where he had left them, but as he drew on the left hand one he exclaimed in a thick, indistinct voice:
"By Jove! Why—why a beastly pin has got into the thumb! And I've pricked myself badly."
And he drew off the glove quickly and examined his thumb beneath the light. Upon the puncture was a tiny bead of dark blood.
I glanced at it critically, and then laughing, declared:
"Oh, that's nothing," and looking at the pin, added: "It isn't rusty, so there can be no danger."
