With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. He was now within a foot of the bar, and introducing himself into the hole, speedily worked his way to it. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. Are you sure you haven't mistaken the ward, Mr. More,’ he said, ‘but I’m told it’s the most amusing thing in London at the present time.
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