He went into the club as into a city of refuge, and prepared to consider a number of little disconnected events that were shaping themselves into a very pretty scheme Things were beginning to entertain him vastly. It was the sort of work he liked.
First he countermanded his lunch. He wanted to think, not eat. Next he pulled from his pocket the little slip of paper he had picked up at Greystones. He read it carefully. It told him little, but that little was curious.
The paper was University paper. It had the University Arms. It seemed to be jotted notes.
He laid it down a moment, and considered one or two other unaccountable, disconnected matters. Brassington's Coat, Brassington's Secret God, the Green Coat. Brassington's fetish—gone. Gone quite unexplained, and gone—let 's see—just a week ago. Missed that Monday night at Purcell's. A young gentleman, "a friend of the young master's," who had called at "Lauderdale" that day and had asked too many questions about Mr. Brassington's movements. Mr. Kirby smiled broadly, and remembered suddenly the letting of Greystones some days before. How old Jock McAuley's son—Jimmy, the name was—
