Scrimgeour and the others discussed matters for a long time—so long that Sam was practically about to fall asleep in the massage chair.
The waiter from earlier had been waiting at the front desk the entire time, at least on the surface.
"Bzz—" A faint vibration came from the watch on his right wrist.
He tapped the watch face lightly, projecting a tiny screen of light.
"I understand. Take good care of them for now. I'll be right down."
The contact name above the message read "Nosferatu," the owner of this Muggle club.
The waiter flashed a wicked smile and shut off the projected screen.
A few minutes later, Scrimgeour and the others had nearly finished their discussion.
The man was not going anywhere. After working so hard for so many days, they could relax here for a while before meeting the person at the center of it all, Lazarus Nosferatu.
Just then, a man in a custom-tailored Italian suit walked toward them.
He looked to be around thirty, leaning on a ruby-studded cane as he walked with aristocratic elegance.
He stopped a short distance in front of them and bowed slightly. "Good morning, honored guests. I am the owner here, Lazarus Nosferatu."
Scrimgeour immediately sensed that the man was no ordinary person.
Though he could not detect any magical fluctuations, he was certain that he caught a trace of danger.
"Hello, Mr. Nosferatu."
Sam, who had nearly fallen asleep, jolted upright and looked at Scrimgeour in confusion.
When the two had shaken hands just now, he had clearly sensed a faint magical presence.
It belonged to Scrimgeour. That Brit had actually secretly used magic to inspect a Muggle.
Seeing that Nosferatu showed no sign of discomfort, Sam secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
Still feeling relieved, he hurried forward