But he didn't mean to go to sleep; he hasn't taken any of
his clothes off. On the whole, sir, wouldn't it be better for you to wake
our man up and get him away?"
David was of the same opinion. Van Sneck was lying on the bed looking
vacantly about him. He seemed older and more worn, perhaps, because his
beard and moustache were growing ragged and dirty on his face. He pressed
his hand to his head in a confused kind of way.
"I tell you I can't find it," he said; "the thing slipped out of my
hand--a small thing like that easily might. What's the good of making a
fuss about a ring not worth L20? Search my pockets if you like. What a
murderous-looking dog you are when you're out of temper!"
All this in a vague, rambling way, in a slightly foreign accent. David
touched him on the shoulder.
"Won't you come back with me to Brighton?" he said.
"Certainly," was the ready response; "you look a good sort of chap. I'll
go anywhere you please. Not that I've got a penny of money left. What a
spree it has been. Who are you?"
"My name is Steel. I am David Steel, the novelist."
A peculiarly cunning look came over Van Sneck's face.
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