"Well, I'm going to bother you with a few quotations, anyway. See here,
I'll just run round to see you. My car is waiting at the door now. I
won't keep you more than a few minutes."

"Don't come before twelve," Philip begged. "I shall be busy until then."

"At twelve o'clock precisely, then," was the reply. "I shall hope to
induce you to change your mind about luncheon. It's quite a long time
since we had you at the club. Good-by!"

Philip set down the telephone. He was still in his pajamas and the
morning was cold, but he suddenly felt a great drop of perspiration on
his forehead. It was the sort of thing, this, which he had expected--had
been prepared for, in fact--but it was none the less, in its way,
gruesome. There was a further knock at the door, and the waiter
reappeared.

"Can I bring you any breakfast, sir?" he enquired.

"What time is it?"

"Half-past nine, sir."

"Bring me some coffee and rolls and butter," Philip ordered.

He sprang out of bed, bathed, dressed, and ate his breakfast. Then he lit
a cigarette, repacked his dressing-case, and descended into the hall. He
made his way to the hall porter's enquiry office.