“Marked with your name?”
“Marked with an inscription—Elliot, from Mimi, Christmas, 1918.”
The coarse voice was suddenly shaken, the coarse face suddenly pale—Elliot from Mimi, Christmas, 1918.
“What did you do after you missed the lighter, Mr. Farwell?”
“Well, I cursed myself good and plenty and went on a hunt for matches downstairs. There wasn’t one in the whole darned place, and I was too lazy to get into my clothes again, so I called Dick at the Dallases’ and asked him to be sure to bring some home with him.”
“What time did you telephone?”
“I didn’t look at the time. It was half-past nine when I started to look for the matches. Quarter to ten—ten minutes to, maybe.”
“Did you go back to bed?”
“Yes; but I went on reading for quite a while. I’d dozed off by the time Dick came in, though the light was still burning.”
“What time was that?”