"One of us has got to die," he panted. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. "Agreed," responded the Master. It was Doctor Ralph, formerly the partner of Doctor Stickell in the Avenue, and now with a thriving practice of his own in Wamblesmith. Ask your own conscience.
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