"I'm sorry to hear that. What's the matter?"
"He's dying."
"Dying! Don't say that."
The woman shook her head. "Would you like to see him, sir?"
"Ah! Er—" Carstairs stood still a moment. "Yes, I should. Can I talk to him? Something important?"
"Oh, yes. He knows he's going, and it would do him good to hear what you've got to say."
He stared at her in quick surprise for a moment, and then stepped after her into the caravan. It was scrupulously clean and expensively upholstered; the sides were partitioned off horizontally into little bunks with neat brass rods and curtains to shut them in; there were windows along the front and back and sides with snowy white lace curtains to them; it was not at all dingy, but very light and bright. The woman drew aside a curtain and showed the silver-haired old man supported in a half-sitting position in the bunk.
Carstairs could see at once that he was very weak, and also that he was very well attended to.
The old man looked him steadily in the eyes. "I've seen you before. How are you?" he said. The voice was very low.
"I'm first class, thank you. I'm sorry to see you're not so well."