"What time does it open?"
"Nine o'clock," answered Mapperley, with a suggestive grin. "In the old days it didn't open till after the theatres. But now—earlier."
"Really not a night-club at all—in the old acceptation of the term," suggested Hetherwick. "Evening, really?"
"That's about it," agreed Mapperley. "Anyhow, it's Vivian's."
For the second time in the course of his investigations, Hetherwick's thoughts turned to Boxley. Boxley's love of intimate acquaintance with all sides of London life had doubtless led him to look in at Vivian's: he would ask Boxley for some further information. And he looked up Boxley at the club.
Boxley knew Vivian's well enough—innocent and innocuous now, said Boxley, what with all these new regulations and so on: degenerated, indeed—or improved, just whichever way you regarded it—into a supper club and that sort of thing. Dancing?—oh yes, there was dancing, and so on—but things had altered—altered.
"Well, I don't want to dance there, nor to go there at all, for that matter, unless I'm obliged to," said Hetherwick. "What I want to know is something about a man who, I believe, frequents the place—a somewhat notable man."
"Describe him!" commanded Boxley.
Hetherwick retailed Rhona's description of Baseverie: Boxley nodded.
"I know that man—by sight," he said. "Seen him there. I believe he's something to do with the proprietorship: that place is owned by a small syndicate. But I don't know his name. I've seen him outside too—round about Leicester Square and its purlieus."