“Good morning,” said the other in a hearty voice. “Fine day, isn’t it? Well, how are we this morning?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Jones. “I want to have a little talk with you.” He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed it.
“For your sake,” said Jones, “it’s just as well we have no one listening, the attendant is in there—you are sure he cannot hear what we say, even with the door shut?”
“Quite,” said Hoover, with a benign smile.
He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food.
He did not expect what followed.
“I am not going to grumble at your having me here,” said Jones; “it’s my fault for playing practical jokes. I didn’t think they’d go the length of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them.”
“And what name was that?” asked Hoover kindly.
“Jones.”
“Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?”