Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom. His number was unlisted and unpublished. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. 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.
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