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He recognised Cronshaw’s voice.
‘Carey. Can I come in?’
He received no answer. He walked in. The window was
closed and the stink was overpowering. There was a cer-
tain amount of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and
he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end to
end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left
little space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed
nearest the window. He made no movement, but gave a low
chuckle.
‘Why don’t you light the candle?’ he said then.
Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a
candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on
the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immo-
bile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness
was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.
‘I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to
look after you here?’
‘George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning be-
fore he goes to his work.’
‘Who’s George?’
‘I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He
shares this palatial apartment with me.’
Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been
made since it was slept in. The pillow was black where the
head had rested.
‘You don’t mean to say you’re sharing this room with
somebody else?’ he cried.
‘Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a