“What?” exclaimed John, aghast? “Oh, nonsense, look again.”
Another search followed; it was without result.
John saw Mary’s appealing eyes fixed on him.
“Nothing,” he said tragically.
“Oh, John!”
“Have you taken the rooms, Mr. Ash forth?” inquired Miss Bussey.
“No. I’m sorry. I forgot all about them.”
Miss Bussey was tired; she had been seasick, and the train always made her feel queer.
“Has neither of you got an ounce of wits about you?” she demanded, and plunged forward to the desk. John and Mary received their numbers in gloomy silence, and mounted the stairs.
Now Arthur Laing in his hasty survey of the party had arrived at a not unnatural but wholly erroneous conclusion. He had seen a young man, rather nervous, a young woman, looking anxious and shy, and an elderly person, plainly dressed (Miss Bussey was no dandy) sitting (Miss Bussey always sat as soon as she could) on, a trunk. He took John and Mary for a newly married couple, and Miss Bussey for an old family servant detailed to look after her young mistress’s entry into independent housekeeping.