Scott piddled around, making piles for his maid, unpacking and puttering around the kitchen. Everything in the fridge needed cooking, and there was not enough energy for that, so he decided to take a shower. That might give him a few more hours before he collapsed.
Exactly one hour later, as promised, Tyrone Duncan rang Scott's doorbell. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then plunged into intense information exchange. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat opposite each other in overstuffed chairs by Scott's wide fireplace.
"Boy have I learned a lot . . ." said Scott.
"I think you may be right," said Tyrone.
"Of course I am. I did learn a lot," Scott said with a confused look on his face.
"No I mean about what you said."
"I haven't said anything yet. I think there's a conspiracy." Scott winced to himself as he said the one word that was the bane of many a reporter.
"I said I think you were right. And are right."
"What the devil are you talking about?" Scott was more confused then ever.
"Remember a few months back, on the train we were talking."