'Who in thunder are you, sir?' demanded Jim.
'Get out of this, unless you want to be thrown out!'
'Chrissy!' again appealed Mr Markham, but in a fainter voice. He had come to a standstill, and his hand went slowly up to his forehead.
Chrissy pointed to the suit-case. 'It's—it's Dick's!' she gasped.
Jim did not hear.
'Mr Wenham,' he said to the white-faced assistant in the doorway; 'will you step out, please, and fetch a policeman?'
'Excuse me.' Mr Markham took his hand slowly from his face, and spread it behind him, groping as he stepped backwards to the door. 'I—I am not well, I think'—he spoke precisely, as though each word as it came had to be held and gripped. 'The address'—here he turned on Chrissy with a vague, apologetic smile—'faces—clear in my head. Mistake—I really beg your pardon.'
'Get him some brandy, Jim,' said the little bookseller.
'The gentleman is ill, whoever he is.'
But Mr Markham turned without another word, and lurched past the assistant, who flattened himself against a bookshelf to give him room. Jim followed him through the shop; saw him cross the doorstep and turn away down the pavement to the left; stared in his wake until the darkness and the traffic swallowed him; and returned, softly whistling, to the little parlour.
'Drunk's the simplest explanation,' he announced.
'But how did he know my name?' demanded Chrissy. 'And the suit-case!'