“Leon is right now,” Poiccart nodded. He rose from the table and unlocked the door. “If any of you men wish to sleep, your rooms are ready; the curtains are drawn, and I will wake you at such and such an hour.”
But neither were inclined for sleep. George had to see a client that morning: a man with a curious story to tell. Leon wanted a carburetter adjusted. They would both sleep in the afternoon, they said.
The client arrived soon after. Poiccart admitted him and put him in the dining-room to wait before he reported his presence.
“I think this is your harem man,” he said, and went downstairs to show up the caller.
He was a commonplace-looking man with a straggling, fair moustache and a weak chin.
“Debilitated or degenerate,” he suggested.
“Probably a little of both,” assented Manfred, when the butler had announced him.
He came nervously into the room and sat down opposite to Manfred.
“I tried to get you on the ’phone last night,” he complained, “but I got no answer.”
“My office hours are from ten till two,” said George good-humouredly. “Now will you tell me again this story of your sister?”