"I did. Ah—waiter, I've been asleep, you know."
"Thank you, sir."
"Only a minute or two, of course."
"Quite so, sir."
"I wish to know if anybody entered this room while I was asleep."
"I couldn't say, sir—unless it might 'ave been Mr. Marrophat. 'E's the only other gentleman on this floor of the club-'ouse at present, sir."
"Marrophat? But I don't know him!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Still ... where is he?"
"In the writing-room, sir."
"Thanks."
"Thank you, sir."
"Marrophat? No fear!" Mr. Law assured himself as the waiter left the room.
On the other hand, roses are not introduced into London's most exclusive clubs without some human sponsor.
On his way out Law glanced through the door of the writing-room, and was confirmed in his incredulity. Mr. Marrophat, stodgily rounded over a desk in the corner, was the incarnate genius of superfatted British dignity. Impossible to credit him with anything resembling a sense of humour—or any such spirit of romantic mischief as might prompt one to distribute roses to one's fellow club members.
