Let us step inside
and drink."
He turned and opened the door. Carringer followed, hope slowly warming
his chilled heart. The pale stranger led the way into one of the little
private compartments with which the place was fitted. Before sitting
down he drew from his pocket a roll of bank bills.
"You are younger than I," he said to Carringer. "Will you go to the bar
and buy a bottle of absinthe, and bring also a pitcher of water and
some glasses? I don't like the waiters hanging round. Here is a
twenty-dollar bill."
Carringer took the money and started down the corridor towards the bar.
He clutched the sudden wealth in his hand tightly. It felt warm and
comfortable, sending a delicious tingling sensation through his arm.
How many glorious meals did not the money represent? He could smell an
imaginary steak, broiled, with fat mushrooms and melted butter in the
steaming dish. Then he paused and looked stealthily backward to where
he had left the stranger. Why not slip away while he had the
opportunity--away from the drinking saloon with the money, to the
restaurant he had passed half-an-hour ago, and buy something to eat? It
was risky, but.
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