Chapter Twenty-EightSpeaking Of Shots—
Mrs. Barrelforth sat down in one of the easy chairs near the liquor cabinet, on which stood a half-full bottle of Scotch. “Might as well try some of this bloke’s whisky,” she said. “Any clean glasses around?”
Tim found two reasonably clean ones and she poured a couple of hookers. “Here’s luck,” she said. “Although right now we seem to have run out of it.”
Tim’s glass paused halfway to his lips. He felt suddenly cold. “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Barrelforth?” he asked. “You don’t think that Sybil is—is already—”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Barrelforth comfortably. “I think she’s holding her own, so far. She’s a cool one.”
Tim looked at the bridge table. “And maybe a wrong un?” he asked in a low, strained voice, as if it hurt him.
“Let’s not jump at c
