Dead Water. Ngaio Marsh

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      He opened a drawer and extracted a metal disc. ‘I shall require,’ she said, ‘seven,’ and laid two half-crowns and a florin on the desk. The hall-porter completed the number.

      ‘No, no, no!’ Major Barrimore expostulated, bouncing out from the interior. ‘We can’t allow this. Nonsense!’ He waved the hall-porter away. ‘See that a dozen of these things are sent up to Miss Pride’s suite,’ he said and bent gallantly over his guest. ‘I’m so sorry! Ridiculous!’

      ‘You are very good,’ she rejoined, ‘but I prefer to pay.’ She opened her reticule, swept the discs into it and shut it with a formidable snap. ‘Thank you,’ she said dismissing the hall-porter. She prepared to leave.

      ‘I don’t approve,’ Major Barrimore began, ‘I – really, it’s very naughty of you. Now, may I – as it’s your first visit since – may I just show you the easiest way?’