Bartholomew Butterworth took five steps to reach the concierge's desk. He removed his gloves, finger by finger, transferred them, along with the lead and his cane, to his left hand. He touched the small brass bell then gave it a sharp and deserved smack.

The concierge emerged from his cubby-hole eating what sounded like a cucumber sandwich.

"Yef, fir?"

Butterworth asserted his authority with no more than a raised eyebrow and a self-enforced silence. The concierge caught up quickly, swallowing his snack and wiping his hands.

"Sorry sir. How can I help?"

"Where am I?"

"Sir?"

"Simple enough question, man. Where am I?"

"Army and Navy Club, Pall Mall, sir."

Butterworth addressed his dog.

"Archie, you're a dolt!"

"Sir?" answered the concierge.

He lifted his eyes so the poor man could see he was blind.

"I'm a member of three clubs and the stupid animal never could tell one from the other."

"Which animal is that, sir?"

Bartholomew raised the lead high enough to be sure there was nothing on the end of it.

"Oh hell's teeth. This really is the end!"