transparently natural, one could not be angry with him. One could
only smile at him, a superior cynical London-bred smile, for an
unsophisticated foreigner. So the Civil Servant asked with a
condescending air, "Well, what's your difficulty? I'll see if
peradventure I can help you out of it." For he reflected to himself
in a flash that as Ingledew had apparently a good round sum in gold
and notes in his pocket yesterday, he was not likely to come
borrowing money this morning.

"It's like this, you see," the Alien answered with charming
simplicity, "I haven't got any luggage."

"Not got any luggage!" Philip repeated, awestruck, letting his jaw
fall short, and stroking his clean-shaven chin with one hand. He
was more doubtful than ever now as to the man's sanity or
respectability. If he was not a lunatic, then surely he must be
this celebrated Perpignan murderer, whom everybody was talking
about, and whom the French police were just then engaged in hunting
down for extradition.

"No; I brought none with me on purpose," Mr. Ingledew replied, as
innocently as ever. "I didn't feel quite sure about the ways, or
the customs, or the taboos of England. So I had just this one suit
of clothes made, after an English pattern of the present fashion,
which I was lucky enough to secure from a collector at home; and I
thought I'd buy everything else I wanted when I got to London. I
brought nothing at all in the way of luggage with me."

"Not even brush and comb?" Philip interposed, horrified.