That night Richard was provided with a bed, but he found himself unable to sleep on it. About the middle of the night—or so it seemed to him—there was a rap on his door.
‘Mr. Redgrave.’
The voice was Juana’s.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Can you come and speak to Mr. Nolan? He wants to speak to you, and nothing else will satisfy him.’
Richard rose and dressed, and came out on the landing, where a lamp was burning. Juana, fully dressed, her eyes ringed with fatigue, stood waiting for him. She beckoned him down the side-passage, and he entered the room occupied by the sick man.
‘Shut the door,’ the sick man commanded in a febrile voice.
As though it had been previously arranged between them, Juana kept out of the room. Richard and the detective were alone together.
‘You’re looking better,’ Richard said.
‘Don’t talk so loud,’ said Nolan. ‘That old scoundrel sleeps next door. Yes, I’m better,’ he went on rather wearily, shifting the position of a pillow, ‘thanks to nursing. I wish to say something to you. You know a good deal about my business up here. You’ve been on the same business yourself. Well, look here: if any questions are asked, I don’t want you to know anything about what I’ve done or what I’ve found out.’