A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. But, moving through into the first of the large main rooms that led one into another around the house, with here and there an antechamber between, it was obvious that the task was not going to be easy.
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