The Toreador had found a quiet corner in the empty smoking-room and was relaxing his weary limbs in an arm chair. He had indulged in a quiet smoke and was now indulging in a quiet doze.... He did not like dancing. He did not like wearing fancy dress. He did not like the Botts. He did not like the noise of the band. He did not like anything....
He opened his eyes with a start, conscious of an alien presence. By his side he saw a small and very villainous-looking Brigand with a stern freckled face, a row of gardening tools and a carving knife round his waist and a red handkerchief tied round his head.
“There’s a Russian wants to see you,” said the Brigand in a dramatic whisper, “he’s waiting for you in the coach-house. He’s gotter message for you from the Russians—private.”
The Toreador sat up and rubbed his eyes. The Brigand was still there.
“Please say it again,” said the Toreador.
“There’s a Russian wants to see you. He’s waiting for you in the coach-house. He’s gotter message for you from the Russians,” repeated the Brigand.
“Where did you say he was?” said the Toreador.
“In the coach-house.”
“And what do you say he’s got?”
“A message from the Russians.”