`A large glass of beer,' said the doctor. `Lager.'
Snorting he produced his cigar-case and offered it round as the waiter took away the glasses. But with the first healing puffs of smoke he settled himself back benignly against the alcove.
`My young friend here will tell you, Hadley,' Dr Fell rumbled, making an immense gesture with his cigar, `that I have been working for seven years on the materials of my book, The Drinking Customs of England from the Earliest Days, and I blush to have to include such manifestations as these, even in the appendix. They sound almost bad enough to be soft drinks. I…'
He paused, small eyes blinking over his glasses. A quiet, impeccably dressed man, who seemed like a manager of some sort, was hesitating near their alcove. He appeared to be ill-at-ease, and feeling slightly ridiculous. But he was contemplating Dr Fell's very picturesque shovel hat which lay across the cloak on a chair. As the waiter brought three rounds of beer, this man entered the alcove.
`Excuse me, sir,' he said, `but may I make a suggestion? If I were you, I should be very careful of this hat.'
The doctor stared at him for a moment, his glass halfway to his lips. Then a bright and pleased expression animated his red face.
`Permit me, sir,' he requested earnestly, `to shake your hand. You are, I perceive, a person of sound taste and judgement. I wish you could talk to my wife on this matter. It is, I agree, an excellent hat. But why should I exercise more than my usual care in guarding it?'
The man's face was growing pink. He said stiffly: 'I had no wish to intrude, sir. I thought you knew… That is to say, there have been several such outrages in this vicinity, and I did not wish to have our patrons incommoded. That hat — well, hang it!' the manager exploded, volplaning down into honest speech, `that thing would be too much. He couldn't miss. The Hatter would be bound to steal it.'
'Who?'
`The Hatter, sir. The Mad Hatter.'