In that event they should send a telegram to his Victoria Street chambers, and he would dine with them.

Otherwise they must advise him of their whereabouts.
Left to himself, he curled up in an arm-chair, knotting legs and arms in the most uncomfortable manner, and rendering it necessary to crane his neck before he could remove a cigar from his lips.
In such posture, alternated with rapid walking about the room, he could think best.
The waiter, not knowing that the barrister had remained in the hotel, came in to see what trifles might be strewed about table or mantelpiece in the shape of loose "smokes" or broken hundreds of cigarettes.
Like most people, his eyes could only observe the expected, the normal.

No one was standing or sitting in the usual way--therefore the room was empty.
A box of Brett's Turkish cigarettes was lying temptingly open.

He advanced.
"Touch those, and I slay you," snapped Brett.

"Your miserable life is not worth one of them." The man jumped as if he had been fired at.