He had been sitting beside a tumbled bed, empty, and near him on the table burned a lamp with a newspaper tied round its shade. There were several bottles, two of them empty, on the table; it was sticky with lemon-peel, soda-water, and sugar; and even the filled ashtrays were damp. Stale smoke hung against the dull lamplight, and the air was nauseously
"Quite right," said Masters. "It's the police. And I'm the one who wants to hear your story, Miss."
"Look," said Emery. He sat down again. He took the stump of a cigarette from a comer of the ashtray, and his hand shook when he put it to his lips. "What kind of crazy business is going on in this place? Somebody knocks at the door, and you open it and there's nobody there. And the lights are out. And somebody ducks around a corner of the hall. "
"What's this?"
"I'm not kidding you! Ask her. It was a little while ago; I don't know when. It can't be Carl being funny, because he never gets that kind of a drunk. Never has, since I've known him I'm telling you, it scared the pants off me for a second. Like somebody was calling my attention to something. I don't know. Crazy, like."
Masters' glance darted to the bed. "Where," he said, "is Mr. Rainger?"
"Oh, he's all right. He went out to-" Emery glanced at the girl, checked himself, and said: "He went to the bath. They feel better when you let 'em alone. But I'm telling you, Cap, that man can't hold much more liquor, or you're gonna have a case of acute alcoholism on your hands. He-"
"Yes," said Masters. "The young lady."
Beryl Symonds had backed away. She was a small brunette, with a pretty if rather heavy face, a somewhat dumpy figure, and earnest brown eyes swollen with weeping. She wore a maid's cap and apron, which she seemed trying to arrange.
She burst out suddenly: "I seen all his pictures! He directs 'em. His name's in as big letters as 'ers. And I couldn't see the harm in talking, but I don't want the sack. Please I don't want the sack!"