The man’s eyes gleamed. He was a typical waiter—pasty-faced, unwholesome-looking—but he had small eyes of a greenish cast, and they were expressive.
“I think, sir,” he said, “you’ve some idea yourself, then, that Mr. Morrison has been getting into a bit of trouble.”
“We won’t discuss that,” Laverick answered. “You must either go away—it’s past nine o’clock and I haven’t had my dinner yet—or you must treat me as you would Mr. Morrison.”
The man looked upon the carpet for several moments.
“Very well, sir,” he said, “there’s no great reason why I should put myself out about this at all. The only thing is—”
He hesitated.
“Well, go on,” Laverick said encouragingly.
“I think,” the man continued, “that Mr. Morrison—knowing, as I well do, sir, the sort of gent he is—would be more likely to talk common sense with me about this matter than you, sir.”
“I’ll imagine I’m Morrison, for the moment,” Laverick said smiling, “especially as I’m acting for him.”
The man looked around the room. The door behind had been left ajar. He stepped backward and closed it.