There was that Darwin fellow all the elites adored who fawned and fanned over it being natural order for some to inevitably die of their own folly. A fool's justification for sitting back and doing naught-...

He slow-blinked as he heard the man behind him tripping over, what, air?

Alright. Maybe the theory made more sense in Britain.

He paused when he saw number twelve, and gestured broadly to the door.

"Good night, young man," he said, turning sharply to continue on.

Even with the realization that, yeah, he was probably going to have to turn right back around and help this fellow put Key A into Hole B.