"You must excuse
me--remiss, very. Owe you many thanks, sir--not only for coming--
great honour--But saved very awkward situation. Overwrought, sir--
that's what I'm suffering from--overstrain: not used to this sort of
thing. . . . My God, I am tired . . . all of a sudden, too; so tired
you can't think. . . . Can I have the pleasure of driving you a part
of the way, Sir Roderick?"
"Thank you, Mr. Farrell," said I. "But you're for Wimbledon, I
believe, and I'm for Chelsea. Fact is"--I ventured it on an
impulse--"I'm going to call on that friend of mine, Professor Foe,
who so unhappily interrupted you to-night, and tell him that he made
a fool of himself." I watched his eyes. They were merely dull--
heavy. "You did provoke him, you know, Mr. Farrell," I went on:
"I'm morally certain he is guiltless of the practices alleged in that
document of yours; and, if I can persuade him to receive you in his
laboratory and show you his work and his methods--"
By George, I _had_ called back that look into Mr. Farrell's
gooseberry eyes! This time it lasted for about two seconds.
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