I slept badly last night, on his sofa. Early this morning I returned to my own room, dressed, ordered up a light breakfast, and then spent two hours in packing. It was nearer eleven than ten when I tapped on the door.
“Come in!” he called.
He had pulled an extra pillow in behind his head, and was sitting up in bed. He was whiter than I had before seen him. And the hand that he extended to me shook so that he could hardly hold it up. It was cold to the touch.
For a few moments after I had sent a boy for his coffee, we talked about next to nothing—the time, the weather, my departure. But his hollow eyes were searching me.
“Who put me here?” he asked, finally.
I told him.
“Any trouble?”
I hesitated.
“Tell me. Don't play with me. Did I break out?”
There was nothing to do but tell him the whole story; which I did. He listened in complete silence, sipping the coffee (for which he seemed to feel some repugnance).