He was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, looking much like an exceptionally cruel caricature of himself. As he spoke, he slouched wearily over to the wing-chair Alison had recently occupied, and dropped into it like a dead weight.
He wore no hat. His clothing was in a shocking condition, damp, shapeless and shrunken to such an extent as to disclose exhibits of bony wrists and ankles almost immodestly generous. On his bird-like cranium the pale, smooth scalp shone pink through scanty, matted, damp blond locks. His face was drawn, pinched and pale. As if new to the light his baby-blue eyes blinked furiously. Round his thin lips hovered his habitual smile, semi-sardonic, semi-sheepish.
“Do you mind telling me how in thunder you got in here?” asked Staff courteously.
Iff waved a hand toward the bedroom.
“Fire-escape,” he admitted wearily. “Happened to see your light and thought I’d call. Hope I don’t intrude.... Got anything to drink? I’m about all in.”
IX
A LIKELY STORY
“If I’m any judge, that’s no exaggeration.” Thus Mr. Staff after a moment’s pause which he utilised to look Mr. Iff over with a critical eye.