‘Yes, sorr,’ answered Mike, appearing from a small butler’s pantry under the staircase.
‘Bring whisky into the drawing-room.’
‘That I will, sorr.’
Richard admired Micky’s sangfroid, which was certainly tremendous, and he determined to have an interview with the man before many hours were past, in order to see whether he could not break that sangfroid down.
‘Come into the drawing-room, will you?’, said Raphael Craig.
‘Thanks,’ said Richard.
The drawing-room proved to be the room into which Mr. Craig had vanished on the previous night. It presented, to his surprise, no unusual feature whatever. It had the customary quantities of chairs, occasional tables, photographs, knicknacks, and cosy corners. It was lighted by a single lamp suspended from the middle of the ceiling. The only article of furniture that by any stretch of fancy could be termed extraordinary in a drawing-room was a rather slim grandfather’s clock in an inlaid case of the Sheraton period. This clock struck one as they went into the room.
Micky arrived with the whisky.
‘You will join me?’ asked Raphael, lifting the decanter.
‘Thanks,’ said Richard.