If I were Mr. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself.
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