John eased off. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. It was too good to be true. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. Let us have no more of this humbug.
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