The Spy Paramount by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Martin Fawley glanced irritably at the man stretched flat in the chair he coveted--the man whose cheeks were partly concealed by lather and whose mass of dark hair was wildly disarranged. One of his hands--delicate white hands they were, although the fingers were long and forceful--reposed in a silver bowl of hot water. The other one was being treated by the manicurist seated on a stool by his side, the young woman whose services Fawley also coveted. He had entered the establishment a little abruptly and he stood with his watch in his hand. Even Fawley's friends did not claim for him that he was a good-tempered person.

"Monsieur is ten minutes _en retard_," the coiffeur announced with a reproachful gesture.