When Crossan’s proceedings ceased to be interesting I looked round to see what had become of the cyclist. I caught sight of him in the custody of two volunteers. He was shoved through the door of the club. I could only see the top of his head, and so failed to recognize him until he entered the room and came over to me.
“Bland,” I said. “How did you get here?”
“I spotted this window,” said Bland, “as I rode along, and I asked them to put me in here. Is it a club?”
“Yes,” I said. “What happened at the meeting?”
“Get me a whisky and soda,” said Bland, “if you’re a member.”
I rang the bell.
“What happened?” I said. “Did they hold the meeting?”
“They were holding it,” said Bland, “when I left. But it wasn’t much of a meeting.”
I ordered a whisky and soda from a terrified waiter.