“Petworth Hotel, Norfolk Street.”
Barberton went down the stairs; the butler was waiting in the hall to show him out, and Mr. Barberton, having a vague idea that something of the sort was usual in the houses of the aristocracy, slipped a silver coin in his hand. The dark-faced man murmured his thanks: his bow was perhaps a little lower, his attitude just a trifle more deferential.
He closed and locked the front door and went slowly up the stairs to the office room. Manfred was sitting on the empire table, lighting a cigarette. The chauffeur-valet had come through the grey curtains to take the chair which had been vacated by Mr. Barberton.
“He gave me half a crown—generous fellow,” said Poiccart, the butler. “I like him, George.”
“I wish I could have seen his feet,” said the chauffeur, whose veritable name was Leon Gonsalez. He spoke with regret. “He comes from West Sussex, and there is insanity in his family. The left parietal is slightly recessed and the face is asymmetrical.”
“Poor soul!” murmured Manfred, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “It’s a great trial introducing one’s friends to you, Leon.”
“Fortunately, you have no friends,” said Leon, reaching out and taking a cigarette from the open gold case on the table. “Well, what do you think of our Mr. Barberton’s mystery?”
George Manfred shook his head.
“He was vague, and, in his desire to be diplomatic, a little incoherent. What about your own mystery, Leon? You have been out all day . . . have you found a solution?”
Gonsalez nodded.