George jumped. He looked round, took a step back and stared at the little man who had come silently into the room. His flat, broad face was unpleasant; his complexion was shiny white, the texture of a slug’s body. Reddish hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a great deal of domed white forehead. His small, hitter, green eyes probed at George inquisitively.
“Besides, you’re not a member,” the little man went on. His voice seemed to come from the back of his throat, like that of a ventriloquist. His bloodless lips hung open, but did not move as he spoke.
“Yes,” George said. “I know.” He fingered his tie uneasily. “I really came to leave a message…”
“Why should I bother with messages?” the little man asked curtly. “Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do?”
That settled it, George thought, delighted. He would have to wait for Brant’s sister. You couldn’t rely on this nasty little specimen to pass on any message.
“All right,” he said, shrugging. “Perhaps you can tell me when Miss Brant will be here? I’ll tell her myself.”
“Who?” asked the little man “Miss Brant? Never ’eard of ’er.”
“Never mind,” George said firmly. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come back later.”
The green eyes probed his face.
“Do you mean Cora?”