‘Well, Marjorie found him the morning after in front of her breakfast-room window—in the middle of the street. Seems he had been wandering about all night, unclothed,—in the rain and the mud, and all the rest of it,—in a condition of hypnotic trance.’
‘Who is the——gentleman you are alluding to?’
‘Says his name’s Holt, Robert Holt.’
‘Holt?—Is he an Englishman?’
‘Very much so,—City quilldriver out of a shop,—stony broke absolutely! Got the chuck from the casual ward,—wouldn’t let him in,—house full, and that sort of thing,—poor devil! Pretty passes you politicians bring men to!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of what?’
‘Are you sure that this man, Robert Holt, is the same person whom, as you put it, you saw coming out of my drawing-room window?’
‘Sure!—Of course I’m sure!—Think I didn’t recognise him?—Besides, there was the man’s own tale,—owned to it himself,—besides all the rest, which sent one rushing Fulham way.’
‘You must remember, Mr Atherton, that I am wholly in the dark as to what has happened. What has the man, Holt, to do with the errand on which we are bound?’