Evan heard a heavy step on the stairs. "Here he comes," he said.
The old man notwithstanding his expressed contempt for his son was not anxious to face him. "Well, well, I've got to go down-stairs," he said, shuffling rapidly out by the small door.
George Deaves entered. Evan could not but feel sorry for him, absurd figure though he was. He looked as if his backbone had lost its pith; he sagged. His necktie was awry, and his hair hung dankly over his forehead, his mouth hung open; he looked like a man nauseated with perplexity.
"So you're here," he said to Evan, not any more concerned about his fate than his father had been.
Evan repeated his brief tale. George Deaves made no comment; scarcely seemed to listen to it in fact.
Evan said: "I suppose the police are looking for me?"
Deaves nodded.
"Then I had better report to them?"
This partly roused Deaves from his apathy. "Leave that to me," he said. "I will see that they are told what is necessary. I don't want any more fuss."
"Mr. Simeon Deaves tells me another letter has been received this morning."