“D’you know Lucy Warren?” he asked in a singular tone.
And suddenly Jean remembered the talk there had been concerning poor Lucy and the strange man who lay there dying before her, his body disintegrating, while his mind, his intellect, remained so sound and clear.
The colour rushed into her face.
“Yes, I know her quite well.”
“Lucy’s a good girl,” he said thoughtfully, and then, “I didn’t behave well to Lucy, Miss Bower.”
“I’m afraid you didn’t.”
“Did she tell you so?” he asked.
“Lucy has never mentioned you to me. I don’t believe she’s ever spoken of you to anybody.”
“I want you to do something for me,” there was a touch of urgency in his voice. “It’s to take down a message for Lucy at my dictation, and then, in the morning, to telegraph it to her. You will find some money over there in a drawer. I’d write it myself, but I’m too weak.”
There came a spot of colour into his cheeks.