He built a coronet and leaned back, a wisp of smoke darting up from the bowl of his pipe.
"I say, you know, but that's a ripping game to play!" drawled a tired voice over his shoulder.
Cutty turned his head, to behold Hawksley, shaven, pale, and handsome, wrapped in a bed quilt and swaying slightly.
"What the deuce are you doing out of your room?" growled Cutty, but with the growl of a friendly dog.
Hawksley dropped into a chair weakly. "End of my rope. Got to talk to someone. Go dotty, else. Questions. Skull aches with 'em. Want to know whether this is a foretaste of the life I have a right to live—or the beginning of death. Be a good sport, and let's have it out."
"What is it you wish to know?" asked Cutty, gently. The poor beggar!
"Where I am. Who you are. What happened to me. What is going to happen to me," rather breathlessly. "Don't want any more suspense. Don't want to look over my shoulder any more. Straight ahead. All the cards on the table, please."
Cutty rose and pushed the invalid's chair to a window and drew another up beside it.
"My word, the top of the world! Bally odd roost."
"You will find it safer here than you would on he
