[Bertie's eyes go even wider at the sight of the gun. Usually people who have guns end up pointing them at him sooner or later, and firing at him as he desperately flees through the undergrowth in his formal evening dress only to stumble into the arms of an unwanted fiancee.

It's a very specific but common problem for him.

But then the man lowers his gun, and Bertie's terror eases somewhat.]

Indeed I am. I was running for my life and seem to have found myself in the incorrect hallway. Or perhaps the incorrect floor.

I say, could you be an aid to a fellow man in desperate need and allow me to hide here for a spot of time?