“Coffee,” was all Chance Mayfield said as he strode past Powell without pausing to give the man his hat or gloves. “Strong, strong coffee.”
“Yes, sir.” Powell barely had time to answer before the sitting room door closed.
Chance paced the length of his room, tossing his hat onto a delicately carved chair, his coat onto the silk-covered settee, and his gloves on a table intricately inlaid with a marble mosaic. At one time any single piece of such elegant furniture would have given him pause, but now he barely noticed it.
He thought about pouring himself a glass of brandy, but decided to wait for the coffee instead. By no means was he a teetotaler, but the last thing he wanted now was more drink to remind him of the evening’s activities. He had shrugged out of his frockcoat and was unfast
