“Suppose that I called you ‘my man?’ ” the woman said in a soft, rather sugary voice. She reminded Andrews of a young and desirable Mrs. Butler.
“For heaven’s sake, Lucy,” her companion murmured, “can’t you keep your fingers off any man?”
She shrugged her shoulders and pouted at Andrews. “You see,” she said, “what a bear he is? Can you imagine what it’s like living with him?”
Andrews, catching above a low-cut dress sight of fine shoulders and the beginnings of two firm young breasts, smiled back. I must be very drunk, he thought. Here was a young and easy woman. O, to have a clear brain.
“Will you come and sit down here, Mr. Absolom?” the man with the tired eyes said, and Mr. Farne pulled out a chair opposite the girl. Andrews sat down and found a glass of muscatel at his hand. He sipped a little. “It’s good of you,” he said and repeated his earlier statement, “not dressed for company.” He scowled at Mr. Farne who had taken a chair on his other side nearer the door. “Introduce me,” he said.
“This is Sir Henry Merriman,” Mr. Farne said. The name seemed somehow familiar to Andrews. “Your good health, Sir Henry,” he said and spilt a little wine on the table cloth. Mr. Farne fidgeted.
“And I,” said the girl opposite him, smiling maliciously at Mr. Farne, “am the not very respectable appendage of Sir Henry. Mr. Farne does not approve of me. Mr. Farne, you know, is a regular churchgoer.”
“Hold your tongue, Lucy,” said Sir Henry sharply. He raised his glass to Andrews. “And your health, Mr.—,” he stopped and waited. The eyes were dark rimmed, as though he spent too few of his hours in sleep. Somewhere very deep in them lay a sharp gleam like a candle shining at the end of a succession of long, dim halls.
“Mr. Absolom,” Andrews said.
Sir Henry laughed courteously. “Yes, but your real name?” When Andrews did not answer, he asked with an air of polite, indifferent inquiry, “Is it perhaps Mr. Carlyon?” The candle was growing larger and brighter. It was being carried forward by an unseen hand through the long dusty chambers.
Oh, but this was comic, Andrews thought. To be mistaken for Carlyon of all people. He began to laugh so loudly and uncontrollably that he found it hard to answer. “No, no, not Carlyon,” he spluttered.
Straight on top of his own words came Sir Henry’s. “But you know Carlyon?” The air of indifference had gone. Something urgent and fanatical had taken their place. The voice cut through the mist of drink straight to Andrews’s understanding. “What do you mean?” he cried. He got unsteadily to his feet. “I’m going. I won’t stay here to be insulted. Of course I don’t know him. What should I know a damned smuggler for?” He put his hand to his head and cursed himself. He was not so drunk that he did not know that he had betrayed himself again. Drink and hunger had confused him. He was no match for sober wits. “I’m going,” he repeated.
“Sit down,” Mr. Farne said sharply. He rose and locked the door. Andrews watched him in amazement and then sat down. They were too much for him.
“Lucy, you’d better go to bed,” said Sir Henry.
She made a grimace at him. “I won’t be sent to bed,” she said. “I’ll either stay here or go down to the bar and find some company.”
“Oh stay then,” Sir Henry replied, as though too tired to argue. He turned to Andrews. “Now, young man, you may as well tell us everything. We are friends. We only want to help you.”
“This is a free country,” Andrews protested mechanically, “you can’t keep me here if I want to go.”
“Why no,” Sir Henry said, “but there is nothing to prevent my handing you over to the police.”
“Oh, I don’t fear that,” Andrews answered. “On what charge?”
“Smuggling,” said Mr. Farne, “and murder.”
“Why should you give us that trouble?” Sir Henry continued. “You are innocent, I know, of the second charge.”
“Well, then, why can’t you leave me alone?” Andrews muttered with sulky tearfulness.
“I am here,” Sir Henry said with unexpected energy, “to hang these murderers. You want that, too, don’t you?”
I must be careful, Andrews told himself, give away nothing. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said aloud.
Mr. Farne sniffed impatiently and Sir Henry fidgeted with his fingers. “You informed against these men,” he said. “An anonymous letter to the Customs,” he looked up at Andrews with contempt and curiosity.
“Why do you say I did it?” Andrews asked.
“Oh, there’s no doubt. No doubt at all.” He spread a dirty envelope on the table. “Absolom, son of King David. Look at this capital A and this K. You gave yourself away finely, my friend. I have your letter to the Customs in my pocket. You wrote it with your left hand, but you can’t destroy those twirls and twists.”
“All right,” Andrews gave a gesture of surrender, “I’ll admit it. Only give me something to eat.”
“Go and find a waiter, Lucy,” Sir Henry said, “and tell him to bring up a steak for Mr.—.”
“Andrews.”
“And tell him also that he must find a bed in the hotel. Mr. Andrews is staying here for the next few days.”
They did not speak to him again, until he had eaten. He felt then not only refreshed but clearer in the
