"I am exceedingly sorry," he stammered. "I—I have come to the wrong rooms."
"Where did you get the key of my suite from?" Maxgregor demanded.
"Who from?" Mazaroff asked helplessly. "Why, from Barlow—Barlow who occupies the suite that I took for this one. You see, Barlow is a friend of mine. Very unfortunate that the key should fit both outer rooms."
"Very," Maxgregor said drily. "When was it that Barlow gave you the key?"
"Yesterday, or the day before?" Mazaroff explained. "You see, he is away from London. As a matter of fact he wanted to let the suite, and I wanted it for a friend. It's very strange that I should find you here like this. I can only tender you my very sincere apologies."
"Better wash your hands before you go," Maxwell suggested grimly. "Were you looking for the basin?"
"That is it," Mazaroff said hurriedly. "You see, I thought I knew my way about the suite, having been so often in Barlow's rooms. I—I slipped getting out of a cab just now and fell on a newly finished piece of asphalte pavement. May I use your basin?"
Maxgregor grimly intimated that the basin was at the disposal of the intruder, who did not cease to pour out floods of apologies. Mazaroff was pretty much at his ease again by this time. He was quite concerned to see Maxgregor looking so pale. Was he suffering from that old malarial fever again?
"Sprained ankle," Maxgregor said sketchily. "Nothing very much to speak of. As a matter of fact, I have never been in better health in my life. It seems to me——"