I won. Do you
concede that? You must be fair, old top, because this is the last big
game I'll ever play." There was a break, a yearning that was almost
plaintive, in his voice.
Keith nodded. "You won," he said.
"You won so square that when the frost got your lung--"
"You didn't take advantage of me," interrupted Conniston. "That's the
funny part of it, Keith. That's where the humor comes in. I had you all
tied up and scheduled for the hangman when--bing!--along comes a cold
snap that bites a corner of my lung, and the tables are turned. And
instead of doing to me as I was going to do to you, instead of killing
me or making your getaway while I was helpless--Keith--old pal--YOU'VE
TRIED TO NURSE ME BACK TO LIFE! Isn't that funny? Could anything be
funnier?"
He reached a hand across the table and gripped Keith's. And then, for a
few moments, he bowed his head while his body was convulsed by another
racking cough. Keith sensed the pain of it in the convulsive clutching
of Conniston's fingers about his own. When Conniston raised his face,
the red stain was on his lips again.
"You see, I've got it figured out to the day," he went on, wiping away
the stain with a cloth already dyed red.
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