"One moment," said Homo, as Beale rose and gathered up his hat and gloves to depart. "Before you go I want you to understand clearly that I am taking on this job because it offers me a chance that I haven't had since I fell from grace, if you will excuse the cliché."
"That I understand," said Beale.
"I may be doing you a very bad turn."
"I'll take that risk," said Beale.
"On your own head be it," said Homo, his hard face creased in a fleeting smile.
Beale's car was waiting, but his departure was unexpectedly delayed. As he passed down the stairs into the vestibule he saw a stranger standing near the door reading the enamelled name-plates affixed to the wall. Something in his appearance arrested Beale. The man was well dressed in the sense that his clothes were new and well cut, but the pattern of the cloth, no less than the startling yellowness of the boots and that unmistakable sign-manual of the foreigner, the shape and colour of the cravat, stamped him as being neither American nor British.
"Can I be of any assistance?" asked Beale. "Are you looking for somebody?"
The visitor turned a pink face to him.
"You are very good," he said with the faint trace of an accent. "I understand that Doctor van Heerden lives here?"