“What’s wrong with him?” asked Coltfoot.
“I don’t know, sir. ’E doesn’t go out any more. ’E ’asn’t left the ’ouse in the last fortnight.”
“That’s nothing. He’s working.”
“No, sir; Mr. Annan don’t write. He just reads or sits quiet like till a fit takes ’im sudden, and then he walks and walks and walks.”
“Does he eat?”
“Nothing to keep a canary ’ealthy. It’s ’igh-balls what keep ’im up, Mr. Coltfoot; and I ’ate to say so, but it worrits me.”
“Mr. Annan doesn’t drink,” said Coltfoot incredulously.
“Oh, no, sir—a glass of claret at dinner—a cocktail perhaps. It’s only the last two weeks that I ’ave to keep ’im in ice and siphons.”
Coltfoot, puzzled, thought a moment: “All right,” he said, “I’ll go up.”
Annan, lying on the lounge, heard him and sat up.