. . . Amid Foe's ravings I heard him
ringing up the exchange and, after a pause, summoning the doctor.
"We had better have the spare room prepared again, after all," said
Constantia. "We can't turn him out, in this state. . . . And there's
a dressing-room, Roddy, next door, if you can put up with it. . . .
But what has happened, God knows."
"God knows," said I. "But he's a lunatic, unless I'm mistaken.
We'll hear what the doctor says. . . . But he shan't sleep here,
to trouble you. . . . Furnilove, whistle up and have a taxi
ready. . . ."
"Oh, what is he saying?" moaned Constantia as the body on the floor
still twisted as if burrowing to hide itself, now muttering and again
shouting in a voice that reverberated along the passage, "Kill him!
Damn that dog!--kill him!"
I knelt on the body and held it still. It was the body of my best
friend, and I knelt on it, almost throttling him.
"One can't ring up a lunatic asylum, at this hour of the morning,"
I found myself gasping. "He's for my flat, to-night, if your doctor
will take charge of him with me.
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