“I’m going to.” He stepped in and the unmistakable rattle of matches in the box told me that he was getting a light. He was clumsy about it, and only after several futile scratches and curses did the small flame flare up; he held it high, and for a moment I saw the living-room—a kitchen table cluttered with crockery, a sink, an empty hearth, and a jumble of painting gear, clumped in a corner. Then the match flickered and burnt his fingers, and he dropped it, but made no effort to strike another.
“Juggins!” said I, defiantly, for this cheerless welcome was getting on my nerves. “Here—isn’t there a candle or anything?”
I hunted through my pockets for a petrol lighter. This gave a steadier light, by which I found and lit a bedroom candle on a bracket just behind the door. The untidy room leaped into existence again. I set the candle down on the table, beside the sordid remnants of a meal. A chair lay overturned on the floor. I righted it mechanically and looked round. Lathom was still standing just inside the door, with his head cocked sideways, as though he were listening.
“Well, I’m damned,” said I, “this is very cheerful. If Harrison—”
“Listen a minute,” he said, “I thought I heard him snoring.”
I listened, but could hear nothing except a tap dripping into the sink.
“Looks to me as if he’d gone out,” I said. “How about starting the fire up? I’m chilly. Where’s the wood?”
“In the basket,” said Lathom, vaguely.
I investigated the basket, but it was empty.
“Oh, well,” I said, “let’s have a drink and get to bed. If Harrison comes in later, you’ll have to do the explaining.”