The fanlight was decorated with a realistic, life-size painting of a white duck. Osewoudt took off the glasses and rubbed his eyes. Moorlag noted this. ‘Let me have my glasses back, all right?’ he said. A young man in a long grey dressing gown let them in. He was short with a domed forehead under a shock of curly fair hair. ‘Hello, Moorlag, my landlady’s out, or it wouldn’t have been me answering the door.’ ‘Stands to reason,’ said Moorlag, in a tone that was new to Osewoudt. ‘May I introduce you to Mr van Druten?’ Osewoudt held out his hand. The young man took it. ‘Meinarends is the name. It is a great honour to meet you, but are you by any chance keeping something under your hat?’ Meinarends kept his left eye screwed up, thereby raising the left corner of his mouth. ‘I beg your pardon, I’m not very well,’ said Osewoudt, stepping into the hallway.
