'We'll have first to get rid of those doctors. I understand him, and he understands himself, better than all the doctors put together. Doctors only mess a man about, they're thinking more of themselves than of you; I never knew a doctor yet who was worth the money you had to pay him. You wait; I'll shift them.'
He was gone more than five minutes; possibly finding the 'eminent medical gentlemen,' of whom, in private life, he apparently had so poor an opinion, more difficult to 'shift' than he had expected. When he returned he beckoned with his finger.
'Now then!' I advanced to the door at which he stood. 'Money, please.' The five-pound note changed hands. 'In you go. I've got to go to the manager's office on business. You'll have him to yourself till I come back.'
I found Mr.-Montagu Babbacombe alone, attired in a pair of tweed trousers and a coloured shirt. He was seated by a table, and embraced with his hand a glass containing what looked like whisky and water. In spite of which facts he looked almost as much like a corpse as ever. Without looking up as I entered, he asked:--
'Who's that?'
'Don't you know me?'
'Know you?' He glanced at me, with lack-lustre eyes, in which was not the faintest gleam of recognition. 'Do you owe me money? If you've come to pay me I'll know you.'
The voice was not right; he spoke with a faint American accent, which I had not previously noticed. But, in spite of its corpse-like pallor, the face was Twickenham's.
'Look at me well. Think.'
'I've quit thinking.'