"It's stopping at the hotel," said Linforth carelessly.
"No," said Peter. "It has not reached the hotel. Look, not by a hundred yards. It has broken down."
Linforth discussed the point at length, not because he was at all interested at the moment in the movements of that or of any other motor-car, but because he wished to stay where he was. Peter, however, was obdurate. It was his pride to get his patron indoors each night.
"Let us go on," he said, and Linforth wearily rose to his feet.
"We are making a big mistake," he grumbled, and he spoke with more truth than he was aware.
They reached the hotel at eleven, ordered their supper and bathed. It was half-past eleven before Linforth and Shere Ali entered the long dining-room, and they found another party already supping there. Linforth heard himself greeted by name, and turned in surprise. It was a party of four—two ladies and two men. One of the men had called to him, an elderly man with a bald forehead, a grizzled moustache, and a shrewd kindly face.
"I remember you, though you can't say as much of me," he said. "I came down to Chatham a year ago and dined at your mess as the guest of your Colonel."
Linforth came forward with a smile of recognition.
"I beg your pardon for not recognising you at once. I remember you, of course, quite well," he said.
"Who am I, then?"