9: The Deal
AN east wind was blowing. Foden, whose blood—thinned by years in the heat—had not accustomed itself to the English climate, shivered a little and turned up the collar of his recently purchased overcoat. The cold, however, did not annoy him. He walked down Pall Mall with an assurance, his hat at its accustomed angle, his lean handsome face and jaunty air winning more than a few glances from feminine eyes.
He turned in through the imposing doorway of a large block of offices. A commissionaire, seated at a table in the hall, looked at him inquiringly.
Foden said: "My name's Foden. I've an appointment with a Mr. Quayle."
The commissionaire consulted the list on his desk. He said: "Oh yes, sir. You might fill in this pass form, will you? You'll need it to get out of the building
