All this flashed through my mind in the few seconds that John Murphy kept staring at me in his intent way. He seemed surprised but not displeased at what I had said, so I hoped to be able to bluff him out of taking it seriously. I was trying very hard hot to look guilty so he would not attach any importance to my slip. “These drinks sure pack a wallop, don't they?” I said to him jokingly. “They sure got my tongue all twisted up.”

“What's in you when you're sober, comes out when you're drunk,” he answered, still looking at me closely.

Our fourth round of drinks arrived just then, to create a diversion, and I said, “You're crazy as hell, John.”

“Maybe I am,” he admitted. “But I'm sure I got the message you didn't intend to send me. And that makes both of us crazy. Doesn't it?”

I didn't know what he was getting at, but I knew that I was in very dangerous territory if I expected to keep my terrible secret to myself. I was about to protest some more when he silenced me with a gesture. After glancing around to be sure he would not be overheard, he asked me, “Have you ever heard of The Club?”

“I've heard of dozens of clubs here in the city. What one are you talking about?” I asked.

“I'm talking about a very special one. It has no other name, — just The Club. And it caters to members who have very special tastes, and who can afford to pay to enjoy those expensive special tastes,” he told me cryptically.

“I don't know what in hell you're talking about,” I said lightly. “It sounds to me as though the drinks have got you talking through your hat, just like me.”