"Why—why, yes, Mr. Morelle," he stammered.
He had not waited at table these past two days without discovering that Ronald Morelle was a name to be mentioned to the accompaniment of blasphemous et ceteras.
"He is in bed. I was just locking up. Does he expect you, Mr. Morelle?"
"No," said Ronnie. "All right, Brien, I know my way up."
He left an apprehensive servant standing irresolutely in the hall.
Jeremiah was not in bed. He was in his dressing gown before a mirror and his face was mottled with patches of gray mud—a cosmetic designed to remove wrinkles from tired eyes.
Ronnie he saw reflected in the mirror.
"What—what the devil do you want?" he demanded hollowly. "What are you doing?"
"Locking the door," said Ronnie, and threw the key on to the pillow of a four-poster bed.
"Damn you—open that door—you sneaking cad!"