"A quarter to one," Lanyard reported on the advice of his watch.
"Then I am fifteen minutes beforehand—"
"That is to say, practically unsexed."
"Furthermore, my friends are never on time. Why not keep me company while I wait, and enjoy a little raking over of old scandals?"
"It would be a pleasure, Liane; but are you sure—?"
"We are arrived."
The woman was diverging toward a dwelling which wore an aspect of too much decorum; a modest establishment with just two windows on the street level diffusing a benign, domestic glow through heavy draperies behind stout bars of iron, and a tight-lipped look about the solid door at the back of its mildly lighted vestibule.
Coupling the atmosphere of its environment, which was both tawdry and rowdy, with certain rumours that had come to his attention, the reticent expression of the house with the rank of private cars that lined the kerb before it, Lanyard hazarded with an accent of distaste: "The Clique Club, eh?"
"You are acquainted?"
"With its reputation only. One hears that the percentage of mortality resulting from indulgence in its bootliquor is unusually low."