“I haven’t come to waste your time,” he explained as he shook hands. “I know this is your busy time. I only wanted to explain that I’ve made free with your petrol and the kind offices of your man in the most shameless way. I got some paint on my coat, leaning over a gate, and, as I was passing your house, I ventured to ask for some petrol to repair the damage.”
“Very glad you did. I hope you got the stuff off,” answered Gregg cordially. “Smoke?”
He handed a box of cigarettes to Fayre, who thanked him and took one.
“Sorry I can’t be more hospitable,” went on the doctor. “But I’ve got a pack of people waiting in the surgery and I sha’n’t get rid of them for another hour, at least.”
Fayre reached for a spill from a vase on the mantelpiece. As he did so his eye lighted on the photograph.
“That’s an interesting head,” he remarked.
“He was an interesting chap. He’d have gone a long way if he’d been allowed. One of the best fellows I ever knew.”
“He looks it,” said Fayre quietly, but with such obvious sincerity that Gregg was moved to enlarge on the subject.
“Got into the hands of a woman and she killed him as surely as if she’d murdered him. He died of alcoholic poisoning, the worst case I’ve ever seen. Trying to forget, he called it.”
Gregg’s voice was rough with emotion and, for the first time, Fayre felt really drawn towards him.