Sorrell heard the pleasant and deliberate voice at his elbow.
"All right. I'll drive in."
From the way the newcomer looked about him in the Angel yard, Sorrell divined his disapproval. Nor did Sorrell approve of the yard.
"No lock ups?"
"No, sir."
"I want an inner tube mending."
"I'll take it round to a garage for you, sir. Luggage in the dicky?"
"Yes."
Sorrell extracted the luggage, a massive leather kit-bag, a suitcase, and an attache case.
"Do you know the number of your room, sir?"
"Fifteen."
The visitor paused at the office window to sign his name in the registration book, while Sorrell carried the luggage upstairs. No. 15 was no better and no worse than the average bedroom at the Angel, and though Sorrell had grown accustomed to the rooms, there were moments when he appreciated their depressing casualness. He unfastened the straps of the kit-bag, and went downstairs, to find the visitor talking to Mrs. Palfrey, and Sorrell came by the impression that it was the woman who had begun the conversation.
He turned to Sorrell.
"Which way?"
"This way, sir. First floor, second room on the left."
The man disappeared up the stairs, and Sorrell glanced at the visitors' book.
"Thomas Roland. London."
The handwriting was like the man, broad and deliberate and without affectation.
Five minutes later Sorrell, who was rearranging the magazines and papers in the lounge, fancied that he heard a bell ringing with aggressive persistency. It was an upstairs bell, and on going to investigate he found Mr. Roland standing outside the door of No. 15.
"Isn't there a maid on duty?"
"There should be, sir."
