“What’s the Barrel?”
“The Barrel is a club. It gets the name from the fact that it’s the only club in England that allows, and indeed urges, its members to sit on a barrel. John Hatton is sometimes to be found there. Come round to it tomorrow night.”
“All right,” I replied. “Where is it?”
“A hundred and fifty-three, York Street, Covent Garden. First floor.”
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll meet you there at twelve o’clock. I can’t come sooner because I’ve got a story to write.”
Twelve had just struck when I walked up York Street looking for No. 153.
The house was brilliantly lighted on the first floor. The street door opened on to a staircase, and as I mounted it the sound of a piano and a singing voice reached me. At the top of the stairs I caught sight of a waiter loaded with glasses. I called to him.
“Mr. Cloyster, sir? Yessir. I’ll find out whether Mr. Malim can see you, sir.”
Malim came out to me. “Hatton’s not here,” he said, “but come in. There’s a smoking concert going on.”
He took me into the room, the windows of which I had seen from the street.