“That was very good of you,” said Clementina.
Quixtus bowed vaguely, but spoke not a word. His lips were white. He held the front edges of his jacket crushed in a nervous grip. Poynter’s voice sounded far away. He barely grasped the meaning of his words. A dynamo throbbed in his head instead of a brain.
“Is he dying?” asked Clementina.
Mr. Poynter made an expressive gesture. “I’m afraid so. He collapsed during the night and they’ve been giving him oxygen this morning. Yesterday he was desperately anxious to see you both.”
“Is it possible or judicious to go to him now?” asked Clementina.
“You may inquire. If you will allow me, I’ll show you the way to his room.”
He led the way to the lift. They entered. For Quixtus his companions had ceased to exist. He was conscious only of going to the dying man, and the dynamo throbbed, throbbed. During the ascent Clementina said abruptly to Poynter:
“How long is it since you’ve been home?”
“Twenty-five years,” he replied with a grim smile. “And it has been the dream of my life for ten.”
“And you’ve stopped off in this Hades of a place for the sake of a sick stranger? You must be a good sort.”