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II
When David strode into the hall of the Stag that evening, there was, as was usual, no one about. A
door at the left was marked Coffee Room, a door on the right was marked Lounge. A door farther
along was marked repressively “For Resident Guests Only.” A passage on the right led along to
the bar, from whence a faint hum of voices could be heard. A small glass-encased box was
labelled Office and had a pushbell placed conveniently on the side of its sliding window.
Sometimes, as David knew by experience, you had to ring four or five times before any one
condescended to come and attend to you. Except for the short period of meal times, the hall of the
Stag was as deserted as Robinson Crusoe’s island.
This time, David’s third ring of the bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippincott along the passage
from the bar, her hand patting her golden pompadour of hair into place. She slipped into the glass
box and greeted him with a gracious smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Hunter. Rather cold weather for the time of year, isn’t it?”
“Yes—I suppose it is. Have you got a Mr. Arden staying here?”
“Let me see now,” said Miss Lippincott, making rather a parade of not knowing exactly, a
proceeding she always adopted as tending to increase the importance of the Stag. “Oh, yes. Mr.
Enoch Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You can’t miss it, Mr. Hunter. Up the stairs, and don’t
go along the gallery but round to the left and down three steps.”
Following these complicated directions, David tapped on the door of No. 5 and a voice said
Come in.
He went in, closing the door behind him.
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