“Sorry, sorry. Well, I dare say the porter was upset too.”
“Yes, but the porter said Rand was biggish, and the body’s on the small side. The porter said he had a lot of hair, and the body’s absolutely bald.”
“My dear chap, give a man a straight back and a bit of manner and lots of fellows think he’s biggish—while he’s alive. And a man that’s absolutely bald is just the man to wear a wig.”
“I thought we were to go by facts,” Bell said gloomily.
“And so we are, Bell. Just a-going to begin, Mr. Snodgrass, sir. No rash haste.”
“Have you got something up your sleeve?”
“Not one little trump. Oh, my dear Bell, how can you? Did I ever? My simple open heart is broken.”
“You’re damned cheerful, aren’t you?”
“My dear man, I never made you swear before. My dear Bell! Sorry. Let’s get on. Let’s get on. I want to call on the elusive Rand.”
There was nothing individual about the rooms of Mr. Rand. He had been content with the furniture supplied by the owners of the place, which was of the usual wholesale dullness. Reggie turned to the manager of the flats. “I suppose there’s nothing in the place Mr. Rand owns? Not even the pictures?”