Moshear, Mercuel Perot, 14 Fairway Street.

The door swung open slowly. Framed in the doorway, stood a man coated from head to foot with dust and mud. His face was thin, then emaciated. He stared at us for a moment, then swayed and fell. Perot hurried to his side, then he looked up and spoke to me. Brandy, quickly. I dashed some Brandy into a glass and brought it. Together we raised him and carried him to the bank account. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an almost vacant stare. What is it you want, Moshear? That's Perot. The man opened his lips and spoke in a queer mechanical voice.