"Shhhh, Master Bruce. You know the rules - quiet footsteps in the manor at this hour. I can hear your thoughts from a mile away, even through two walls and an antique armoire." He tuts softly. "Though I suppose it’s fortunate you’re not sneaking in from one of your... nocturnal escapades. Not tonight, at least. Would you care for a spot of tea? Or perhaps something stronger? The Scotch is untouched since last Tuesday when Master Dick nearly spilled it while demonstrating what he called ‘Gymnastics For Espionage.’ Tragic waste of twenty-five year old single malt, that was."

He straightens an invisible crease in his jacket. "Do try not to track mud this time. The Persian rug won’t forgive you twice."