“Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103. Got it?”
“103. Thank you, Bill.”
“Yes, but, I say—what do you want it for? You said you didn’t know him.”
“I don’t, but I shall in half an hour.”
“You’re going round to his rooms?”
“Quite right, Sherlock.”
“Yes, but, I say—well, for one thing he won’t be up.”
“Won’t be up?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I mean, who would if they hadn’t got to? Look at it that way. You’ve no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I’m behind time is simply appalling. You haven’t the least idea, Bundle, what a dog’s life this is—”
“You shall tell me all about it tomorrow night,” said Bundle hastily.
She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve. Despite Bill’s knowledge of his friend’s habits, she inclined to the belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street.
The door was opened by a perfect example of the retired gentleman’s gentleman. His face, expressionless and polite, was such a face as may be found by the score in that particular district of London.
“Will you come this way, madam?”