MARWOOD blunders upstairs. Passes the bathroom door on his way. As he does so a man appears. Thirty years old. Pale as an oven-ready chicken. His hair is wet. The eyes have practically vanished under mauve lids. But the face is shaved and has dignity. So do the clothes. He wears a tweed overcoat. Corduroy trousers and brogues. There’s class here somewhere. His name is WITHNAIL.