Explore "The Golden Bat" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was an hour later before Ray ran the man he wanted to earth. He found him at length in a big attic over a shop in Bloomsbury, a wide, bare room, almost devoid of furniture, with a long deal table in the middle, and a ragged apology for a bed huddled away in one corner. On a chair stood a tray, with the remains of a meal, and by the large table sat a man with a thin, gaunt face, and a lean head, the hair of which was silver grey, quite prematurely grey, for, despite the ravages of dissipation and disease, the solitary occupant of the garret could not have been much more than forty. Ray marked the shaking hand and the bloodshot eyes, to say nothing of the little, brown scars upon the wrist, which were scored, over and over again, with the marks of a hypodermic needle.
As Ray knocked and entered, the man sitting there in his shirt-sleeves growled something, and looked up with a sullen scowl on his thin sensitive face. Then he changed colour slightly, and forced a laugh to his lips.