Say, this _is_ queer looking stuff.

What do you call it ?" "_Creme violette._" The Dummy set down his emptied liqueur glass on the mantelshelf, and nodded approvingly at Vandover; then he scribbled, "Out of sight," on his tablet.
"Tastes like cough syrup and alcohol," growled Ellis, scowling and sipping.

"I think a pint of this would make the Dummy talk Dutch.

Keep it up, Dummy," he continued, articulating distinctly so that the other could catch the movement of his lips.

"Drink some more--make you talk." Vandover was cutting the string around a pasteboard box that had just come from his tailor's; it was a new suit of clothes, rough cheviot, brown with small checks.