The voice was coming indistinctly through. ‘Yes,’ said the voice – a pleasant if ordinary voice, perhaps with a shade more of instinctive reasonableness than would be welcome to everybody – ‘yes, I know I’ve promised to come down. But I was thinking of Sunday morning; there’s a good deal of work here. What exactly are the symptoms, nurse?’ The voice’s sense of humour verged on the conscientious. ‘I am at the bedside’, continued the voice, ‘of a repentant and parturient burglar, waiting the delivery of King’s Evidence. And I’m asking what are the symptoms at your end. I’m asking – never mind. What’s it all about?’ The voice was silent. It interrupted only once. ‘Don’t please John me,’ it said; ‘keep to the facts.’ ‘Midnight?’ said the voice. ‘I see what you mean. But do you realize I’m at least a hundred miles away? And do you think I can take a police car on holiday just for the asking? You do? When do they dine – eight? I’ve an hour’s work here, but I’ll make it.
