“Surely,” I said, and we all went out into the outer office. A tall, bent man with drooping mustache stood by the window. His gaunt face and threadbare clothes, neatly brushed though they were, showed an evident lack of prosperity.
“I ventured to insist, sir,” he said, addressing me, “as I have had quite a little experience in phosphorescent ink. It was only a year ago that I served in a laboratory where they were working with it, and while I was simply working under the direction of other people, I think I could work well along that line. I should try to do my best. I need a place.”
This looked more like the real thing. I waved towards Tom. He could run this end of the inquiry better than I.
“What’s your name?”
“George Swenton.”
“Where did you have your experience?” questioned Tom.
“With Doctor Heidenmuller, in his private research laboratory,” answered the man.
“What training have you had?”
“Not much. Only a few courses at the University of London. I was only the second assistant. I worked with Doctor Heidenmuller for four years, until he died six months ago. I have had no place since, sir.”