"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?"
He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one says in a nightmare.
The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather searchingly at Ronnie.
Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it—the best thing I have done yet."
The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company.
"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?" he suggested.
"Ah—good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room.
It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee?
He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble tables he would sit. He never remembered being offered so large or so varied a choice at Liverpool Street Station before. You generally made a dash for the only empty table you saw, usually close to the door. That was like Hobson's choice—this or none! A stable of forty good steeds, always ready and fit for travelling, but the customer must take the horse which stood nearest to the door!
Well, to-day he had the run of the stable. Forty good marble tables! Which should he choose?