‘I saw him last night; he was one of the watchers.’
‘Is he near my size?’
‘A trifle broader, otherwise near enough.’
‘What luck!’ said Merton, adding, ‘well, I can’t start by the 10.49. I’m ill. I’m in bed. Order my breakfast in bed, send Mrs. Bower, and come up with her yourself.’
Merton rushed up the turnpike stair; in two minutes he was undressed, and between the sheets. There he lay, reading Bradshaw, pages 670, 671.
Presently there was a knock at the door, and Logan entered, followed by Mrs. Bower with the breakfast tray.
Merton addressed her at once.
‘Mrs. Bower, we know that we can trust you absolutely.’
‘To the death, sir—me and mine.’
‘Well, I am not ill, but people must think I am ill. Is your grandson on the night shift or the day shift?’