Lionel’s Plans
I slept till late the next morning and then had breakfast in my room. I was in the middle of it when knuckles tapped my door. A stocky man in a wrinkled gray uniform, set off with a short, thick sword, came in, saluted, gave me a square white envelope, looked hungrily at the American cigarettes on my table, smiled and took one when I offered them, saluted again, and went out.
The square envelope had my name written on it in a small, very plain and round, but not childish, handwriting. Inside was a note from the same pen:
The Minister of Police regrets that departmental affairs prevent his receiving you this afternoon.
It was signed “Romaine Frankl,” and had a postscript:
If it’s convenient for you to call on me after nine this evening, perhaps I can save you some time.
Below this an address was written.
I put the note in my pocket and called: “Come in,” to another set of knocking knuckles.
Lionel Grantham entered.
His face was pale and set.
“Good morning,” I said, making it cheerfully casual, as if I attached no importance to last night’s rumpus. “Had breakfast yet? Sit down, and—”