‘The club is not open yet,’ he said, civilly enough. ‘You probably do not know the hours, as this is the first time you have been here, though you have the pass words.’
Castiglione understood that it was the doorkeeper’s business to know the faces of those who frequented the place. He gave the man twenty francs by way of making acquaintance.
‘Thank you,’ said the fellow, who had not failed to notice that the pocket-book from which the notes were produced was well filled. ‘I presume you wish to join the club, sir?’
He knew his business and was a judge of men at first sight; a glance had assured him that the newcomer was an officer in civilian’s clothes, and was therefore perfectly eligible to the ‘club.’
Castiglione only hesitated for a moment.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I should like to see the proprietor.’
‘The treasurer, sir,’ said the man, correcting him politely, but with some emphasis, ‘is upstairs. If you will kindly step into the reading-room I will ask whether he can see you. I believe he has just finished his breakfast.’
Castiglione followed him through a long passage that turned to the left, and the man unlocked the door of a room that smelt of stale cigarette smoke. It was dark, but in a moment the doorkeeper turned up a number of electric lights. The walls were full of mirrors, and the furniture was of the description which must be supposed to suit the taste of the wicked, as it is only found in their favourite resorts. There was a vast amount of gilding, red plush and sky-blue satin, and the table was covered with dark green cotton velvet, fastened to the edges with gilt nails, below which hung a green and pink fringe.
As the place was a reading-room it was natural that there should be something in it to read. The literature was on the table, and consisted of a new railway guide, a small framed and glazed price-list of ‘refreshments,’ in which ‘Cognac’ was offered for the modest sum of twenty-five francs the bottle, and an old number of a disreputable illustrated paper.
Castiglione was not familiar with low places of any sort, and he looked about him with surprised disgust. He was not left to himself very long; the door opened and a broad-shouldered man with a white face entered and shut it behind him. He wore a dark morning coat, very well cut, and the fashionable collar and tie, but he smelt of patchouli and his light hair curled on his forehead. Castiglione felt an instant desire to throw him out, and would certainly have done so at sight if the man had appeared in his own rooms.