He doesn't have a gun on him. He's never required one—certainly before being put away, and not after in his particular position. His colleagues would be the type to both notice and be suspicious were he suddenly moved to sport a handgun in his coat pocket. This isn't a fact that's ever particularly bothered him. It has always seemed highly unlikely that he will find himself in a position where he might wish for one. But here, standing in the doorway to Jane's little sitting room still in his jacket and tie and looking faintly bedraggled from the day with one arm engaged managing both overcoat and stick, it bothers him enough that he answers that smile and all that ease with a glower.

Not that it matters. His aim is probably absolute shit anyway.

"Thank you, but no."

The overcoat comes off his arm and is dumped unceremoniously over the seat of the nearby telephone table. The stick remains in hand, though he forces himself to plant it like one ought to use a cane rather than continuing to hold it like a bludgeon.

"Will she be joining us?"