A small bright-eyed man in a grey suit came and looked at Sargon. For some moments they regarded each other in silence. “Well?” said the man in the grey suit.
“My name is Sargon. I do not know why I have been brought here. Is this a hospital? I understand it is. I am not ill.”
“You may be ill without knowing it.”
“No.”
“We just want to have you here for a bit to have a look at you.”
Sargon shrugged his shoulders.
A very big man with exaggerated shoulders and a large, clean-shaven, intensely self-satisfied looking face appeared. He had a wide, thin-lipped mouth, protruding grey eyes and highly oiled and entirely subjugated sandy hair with an army “quif” on the forehead.
“Busy evening,” he said. “This is number three.”
“Pretty full then,” said the small man in grey.
“Too full,” said Mr. Jordan, “You don’t know where you are. This ’im?” he asked and indicated Sargon by creasing his thick neck and depressing the corner of his mouth towards him.