The retired investigator found Whitaker getting into his clothes: a ceremony distinguished by some profanity and numerous grunts.
"Afternoon," he said, taking a chair and surveying the sufferer with slightly masked amusement. "Having a good time?"
"You go to thunder!" said Whitaker in disgust.
"Glad to see you're not hurt much," pursued the other, unabashed.
Whitaker withered him with a glare. "I suppose it's nothing to have a shoulder and arm black-and-blue to the elbow! a bump on the side of my head as big as a hard-boiled egg! a bruised throat and an ankle next door to sprained! Oh, no—I'm not much hurt!"
"You're lucky to be alive," observed Ember, exasperatingly philosophic.
"A lot you know about it!"
"I'm a canny little guesser," Ember admitted modestly.
"Where'd you get your information, then?"
Ember waved a non-committal hand. "I hear things...."