A man with an odd yellow face, who, with his steady unwinking eyes might have been a figure of wax save for the regular rise and fall of his breast, and the spasmodic twitching of his lips. T. B. judged him to be somewhere in the neighbourhood of seventy, and, if anything, older. His face was without expression; his eyes, which turned upon the intruder, were bright and beady.
"This is Mr. Moole," said the suave secretary. "I am afraid if you talk to him you will get little in the way of information."
T. B. stepped to the side of the bed and looked down. He nodded his head in greeting, but the other made no response.
"How are you, Mr. Moole?" said T. B. gently. "I have come down from London to see you."
There was still no response from the shrunken figure under the bedclothes.
"What is your name?" asked T. B. after a while.
For an instant a gleam of intelligence came to the eyes of the wreck. His mouth opened tremulously and a husky voice answered him.
"Jim Moole," it croaked, "poor old Jim Moole; ain't done nobody harm."
Then his eyes turned fearfully to the man at T. B.'s side; the old lips came tightly together and no further encouragement from T. B. could make him speak again.