“It is indeed.—And now the bathtub, if we are to dine at eight. Archie, if you would show Mr. Hibbard the south room, the one above mine...”
I got up. “It’ll be clammy as the devil, it hasn’t been used... he can have mine...”
“No. Fritz has aired it and the heat is on; it has been properly prepared, even to Brassocattlaelias Truffautianas in the bowl.”
“Oh.” I grinned. “You had it prepared.”
“Certainly.—Mr. Hibbard. Come down when you are ready. I warn you, I am prepared to demonstrate that the eighth and ninth chapters of The Chasm of the Mind are mystic nonsense. If you wish to repel my attack, bring your wits to the table.”
I started out with Hibbard, but Wolfe’s voice came again and we returned. “You understand the arrangement, sir; you are to communicate with no one whatever. Away from your masquerade, the desire to reassure your niece will be next to irresistible.”
“I’ll resist it.”
Since it was two flights up, I took him to Wolfe’s elevator. The door of the south room stood open, and the room was nice and warm. I looked around: the bed had been made, comb and brush and nail file were on the dresser, orchids were in the bowl on the table; fresh towels were in the bathroom. Not bad for a strictly male household. I went out, but at the door was stopped by Hibbard:
“Say. Do you happen to have a dark brown necktie?”
I grinned and went to my room and picked out a genteel solid-color, and took it up to him.