Mr Reginald Dimmock, still in evening dress, and smoking a cigarette, rose hurriedly from a table.
‘Hello, my dear Mr Racksole, this is an unexpected—ah—pleasure.’
‘Where is my daughter? This is her room.’
‘Did I catch what you said, Mr Racksole?’
‘I venture to remark that this is Miss Racksole’s room.’
‘My good sir,’ answered Dimmock, ‘you must be mad to dream of such a thing.
Only my respect for your daughter prevents me from expelling you forcibly, for such an extraordinary suggestion.’
A small spot half-way down the bridge of the millionaire’s nose turned suddenly white.
‘With your permission,’ he said in a low calm voice, ‘I will examine the dressing-room and the bath-room.’
‘Just listen to me a moment,’ Dimmock urged, in a milder tone.