A shaded lamp arranged to leave the bed in shadow was the only light. In the bed lay a man. Peering at his face, Anthony could trace a certain faint resemblance. He sat on the chair by the bed and waited.
“What the devil are you?” said a weak voice.
Clearly, but with rapidity, Anthony explained his presence.
“I’m sorry,” he said in conclusion, “to disturb a sick man, and I’ll get the business over as quickly as possible. But I’ve got to find out all I can, you see.”
“Quite, quite.” Masterson’s voice was stronger now. Free of fever, shaven, clean, he was vastly different from Margaret’s bogey.
“How can I help?” he asked after a silence.
Anthony told him. Bored at first, Masterson woke to sudden interest at the mention of the newspaper-cuttings.
“So he did keep ’em!” He lifted himself in the bed to rest on one elbow.
Anthony pushed the little bundle of slips into the thin hands. Eagerly, the sick man read each.
“Some of these are new,” he said. “After my time with Hoode, I mean. But these three—and this one—I remember well. Dammit, I ought to! These are what we had that infernal row about.”