"I can't help it, sir. . . . Half a guinea he used to give me,
regular. But the last time--and hard to believe 'twas little more
than a month ago--he halts on his way out, and says he, searchin'
awkward-like in his breeches' pocket with his left hand, 'Ned,' says
he, 'my old friend'--aye, sir, his old friend he called me--'Ned,'
says he, pullin' out a fistful o' gold, 'my old friend,' says he,
'I'll compound with you for two guineas, this bein' the last time you
may hold the door open for me, in or out. But you must pick 'em
out,' says he, spreadin' his blessed fingers with the gold in 'em:
'for a man can't count money who's lost his right flapper.'
Those were his words, sir. 'Old friend,' he called me, in that way
of his."
Lieutenant Lapenotiere pointed to his left arm. Around the sleeve a
black scarf was knotted.
"_Dead_, sir," the night-porter hushed his voice.
"Dead," echoed Lieutenant Lapenotiere, staring at the Turkey carpet,
of which the six candles, gaining strength, barely illumined the
pattern. "Dead, at the top of victory; a great victory. Go: fetch
somebody down."
The night-porter shuffled off. Lieutenant Lapenotiere, erect and
sombre, cast a look around the apartment, into which he had never
before been admitted.
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