"Yes; I had to overhaul his things—we thought he was dying—and the Sonnets—"
"Never mind the Sonnets now, please. Tell me about his illness. What was it?"
Again that air of imperious proprietorship! "Enteric," he said bluntly, "and some other things."
"Where was he before they took him to the hospital?"
"He was—if you want to know—in a garret in a back street off Tottenham Court Road."
"What was he doing there?"
"To the best of my belief, he was starving. Do you find the room too close?"
"No, no. Go on."
Maddox went on. He was enjoying the sensation he was creating. He went on happily, piling up the agony. Since she would have it he was not reticent of detail. He related the story of the Rankins' dinner. He described with diabolically graphic touches the garret in Howland Street. "We thought he'd been drinking, you know, and all the time he was starving."
"He was starving—" she repeated slowly to herself.