Yes, drunk
when I can get it and craving when I can't. That's Tim Martlow when
he's living. Tim Martlow dead's a different thing. He's a man with his
name wrote up in letters of gold in a dry canteen. Dry! By God, that's
funny! He's somebody, honoured in Calderside for ever and ever, amen.
And we won't spoil a good thing by taking chances on my reformation.
I'm dead. I'll stay dead." He paused in enjoying the effect he made.
Sir William stooped to pick his cheque-book from the floor. "Don't do
that," said Tim sharply. "It isn't out of your mind yet that money's
what I came for. Fun's one thing that brought me. Just for the treat of
showing you myself and watching your quick-change faces while I did it.
And I've had my fun." His voice grew menacing. "The other thing I came
for isn't fun. It's this." Dolly screamed as he took her arm and jerked
her to her feet from the corner where she had sought obscurity. He
shook her urgently. "You've been telling tales about me. I've heard of
it. You hear all the news when you lie quiet yourself and let other
people do the talking.
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