He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those
walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy
smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom’s next door
when I was there.
He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap
I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief
he took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hip pocket
of his trousers.
What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something
I forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. No. Here. No.
A sudden screech of laughter came from the _Evening Telegraph_ office.
Know who that is. What’s up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it
is.
He entered softly.