My hand was on his door-bell when I noticed a figure I thought I knew lounging at the foot of the stair.
It was Scrymgeour himself, and he was smoking the Arcadia.

We greeted each other languidly on the doorstep, Scrymgeour assuring me that "Japan in London" was a grand idea.

It gave a zest to life, banishing the poor, weary conventionalities of one's surroundings.

This was said while we still stood at the door, and I began to wonder why Scrymgeour did not enter his rooms.

"A beautiful night," he said, rapturously.