"
Could this, by any chance, be "that boy" who, Mr. Brian Shaynon had
been assured, wouldn't know where he'd been when he waked? Was an
attempt to ensure that desired consummation through the agency of a
drug, being made in the open restaurant?
If not, why was Red November neglecting all other affairs to press
drink upon a man who knew when he had enough?
If so, what might be the nature of the link connecting the boy with
the "job," to be on which at half-past two November had just now
covenanted with Brian Shaynon?
What incriminating knowledge could this boy possess, to render old
Shaynon, willing that his memory should be expurgated by such a
mind- and nerve-shattering agent as the knock-out drop of White Light
commerce?
Now Shaynon was capable of almost any degree of infamy, if not,
perhaps, the absolute peer of Red November.
This strange development of that night of Destiny began to assume in
P. Sybarite's esteem a complexion of baleful promise.
But the more keenly interested he grew, the more indifferent he made
himself appear, slouching low and lower in his chair, his eyes
listless and half closed--his look one of the most pronounced apathy:
the while he conned the circumstances, physical as well as psychical,
with the narrowest attention. Certainly, it would seem, a man who had
enough instinctive decency to wish to escape the degradation of deeper
drunkenness, should be humoured rather than opposed.
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