Malone blinked. “Look,” he said. “I know I startled you, but I didn’t mean to. I—” He started to sneeze, but this time he got his own handkerchief out in time and muffled the explosion slightly.
“Good work,” the girl said approvingly. “Tell me, Mr. Malone, have you been toilet-trained, too?”
There was nothing at all to say to that remark, Malone reflected as he wended his way down the side corridor. It seemed endless, and kept branching off unexpectedly. Once he blundered into a large open room filled with people at desks. A woman who seemed to have a great many teeth and rather bulbous eyes looked up at him. “Can I help you?” she said in a fervent whine.
“I sincerely hope not,” Malone said, backing away and managing to find the corridor once more. After what seemed like a long time, and two more sneezes, he found a small door which was labeled in capital letters:
THE PSYCHICAL RESEARCH SOCIETY
SIR LEWIS CARTER
PRESIDENT
Malone sighed. “Well,” he muttered, “they certainly aren’t hiding anything.” He pushed at the door, and it swung open.
Sir Lewis was a tall, solidly-built man with a kindly expression. He wore grey flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket, which made an interesting color contrast with his iron-grey hair. His teeth were clenched so firmly on the bit of a calabash pipe with a meerschaum bowl that Malone wondered if he could ever get loose. Malone shut the door behind him, and Sir Lewis rose and extended a hand.
Malone went to the desk and reached across to take the hand. It was firm and dry. “I’m Kenneth Malone,” Malone said.