"It was the name of a man," answered Otway.
"This man?" Barham tapped his finger on the newspaper.
Otway nodded.
"The man the inquest was held on?"
"That—or the other." Otway looked around at them queerly. "I think the other. But upon my soul I won't swear."
"The other? You mean the stranger—the man who interrupted—"
At this point Yarrell-Smith sank upon a locker. "I beg your pardon, all of you," he moaned helplessly; "but if there's such a thing about as First Aid—"
"Sammy had better read you this thing he's unearthed," said Polkinghorne kindly.
Barham picked up the newspaper.
"No, you don't," Otway commanded. "Put it down.… If you fellows don't mind listening, I'll tell you the story. It's about Hate; real Hate, too; not the Bosch variety."