“Never mind Tucson.” There was another pause and a murmur of voices, as if Grice were in consultation in his office. Then Grice came back and demanded in one breath: “If you don’t know him, how is it he has your name and address as his final destination in London on his travel documents.”

“He has?” exclaimed Rollison.

“I have his ticket in front of me, and on it your address is quoted as his English destination.”

“You know,” Rollison said. “I wish he would come. I would like to ask him a thing or two.”

“Well,” Grice said, “he can’t.”

The phrase struck an ominous note and moved Rollinson’s emotions from bewilderment with an under-tone of frustration to apprehension. He did not ask why Thomas G. Loman could not come to see him, but knew of at least one very good reason: that he was dead.

Grice went on slowly, as if grudgingly : “Not yet, at all events.”

The devil, thought Rollison, he’s having me on. Aloud, he asked: “Is he hurt?”

“He’s unconscious.”

“What put him out?” demanded Rollison, sharply.

“A shot of morphia,” Grice stated, without any hesitation at all. “When the aircraft arrived at Heath Row this morning he was found unconscious in his seat. At first the stewardesses thought he was asleep, but it is much more than that. He’s in the airport hospital now, and I’ve just had the report saying that he’s under morphine and that there are hypodermic needle punctures in his right and left forearms.” There was a long pause which could only be called pregnant, before Grice demanded in a voice laden with doubt: “Are you sure you don’t know him? Are you sure you’re not up to something you’ve forgotten to tell us about?”

Very slowly, Rollison answered: “I am quite sure, William.”

“Then why the devil should he have been coming to see you?” demanded Grice. “He’s got no luggage and no money in his wallet. His American passport is valid. Either he left New York quite empty handed or else he’s been robbed.”