"Better let me guide you. It's shamefully dark--this hall. I'm always
complaining," he said lightly, recognising by the weight upon his arm
that the guidance was sorely needed, "but the old cat never does
anything except promise." He led him to the sofa, wondering all the time
where he had come from and how he had found out the address. It must be
at least seven years since those days at the private school when they
used to be such close friends.
"Now, if you'll forgive me for a minute," he said, "I'll get supper
ready--such as it is. And don't bother to talk. Just take it easy on the
sofa. I see you're dead tired. You can tell me about it afterwards, and
we'll make plans."
The other sat down on the edge of the sofa and stared in silence, while
Marriott got out the brown loaf, scones, and huge pot of marmalade that
Edinburgh students always keep in their cupboards. His eyes shone with a
brightness that suggested drugs, Marriott thought, stealing a glance at
him from behind the cupboard door. He did not like yet to take a full
square look. The fellow was in a bad way, and it would have been so like
an examination to stare and wait for explanations.
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