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In his room he lighted a cigarette, laid it on an ash-tray, and set immediately to unpacking his bags, swiftly, systematically and without haste, pausing only for an occasional puff at the cigarette. Three minutes before he had finished unpacking he turned on the water in the bath-tub. The bath was ready at almost the precise moment Stacey was ready for it. He dressed with the same smooth uninterested efficiency he had shown in unpacking and undressing. Only once did he make any wasteful gesture. This was when, his foot coming in contact with one of the puttees he had laid on the floor, he deliberately kicked the puttee across the room.

Finally, when he had bathed and dressed and everything was put away, Stacey looked in the telephone book, then called up Philip Blair’s number.

“Phil? This is Stacey.... Yes.... Yes.... What? ... Oh, just now, a few minutes ago! ... How’s that? ... Oh, yes, perfectly sound! No wooden leg, no false face, nothing at all! ... Why didn’t I what? (What the devil’s come over your telephone system?) ... Oh, write oftener! Well, I did! ... Yes, of course. ’T’s what I telephoned for. Sure! Be right up.”