"No dog made these scratches!"
"I said you might call it a dog," he reminded me.
"I might call it an ourang-outang and be nearer the mark! Am I to
conclude that you keep a menagerie in your house, Mr. Lessing?"
"Suppose I told you I did it myself?"
"I should call you a liar," I said. "I have seen your hands."
"Old Lennox swore I did. I told you he was a fool."
"We'll drop the scratches," I said, walking to the window. "I don't
know that it really matters if you choose to tell me they were done
by a tame mud-turtle in the back yard. But one or two things you'll
have to stop if I'm looking after you."
"Such as?"
"You want sleep, man! You look as if you hadn't seen bed for a week."
"I sleep in the daytime. I have to work at night."
"What--photography?"
"Chemistry ... of sorts."
"Chemistry doesn't have to be done at night, of necessity," I
answered. "You're overworked and you're using yourself up. You know
you've hardly a whole nerve left in your body at this moment."
"I've plenty in my shoulder," he returned drily, and I smiled
involuntarily as our eyes met. There was a fascination in the man,
despite his eccentricity, his absurd persistence in what seemed to be
a tissue of childish and reasonless lies, to which I held no clue.
"That won't hurt you long. I'll look in again tomorrow." I wheeled
on him abruptly, of purpose. "How long have you been taking morphia?"