Then, to Desmond, he said:
“Nasty ding you got, sir! My word, I thought they’d done for you when I come in at the winder!”
The telephone on the desk tingled sharply. The door opened at the same moment and a shabby little old man with sandy side whiskers and moleskin trousers came briskly in.
His appearance had a curious effect on the patient on the settee. Despite the doctor’s restraining hand, he struggled into a sitting position, staring in bewilderment at the shabby old man who had gone straight to the telephone and lifted the receiver. And well might Desmond stare; for here was Mr. John Hill, the odd man, talking on the telephone. And his voice...
“Well?” said the man at the telephone, curtly.
“Yes, speaking. You’ve got her, eh? Good. What’s that? Well, that’s something. No trace of the others? Damn!”
He slammed down the receiver and turned to face the settee.
“Francis!” cried Desmond.
And then he did a thing highly unbecoming in a field officer. He burst into tears.