‘I had been requested to go there,’ was the calm response.
‘You are a liar, and not a very clever one. That is my daughter’s room. Now—out with it, before I decide whether to shoot you or throw you into the street.’
‘Excuse me, sir, No. 111 is occupied by a gentleman.’
‘I advise you that it is a serious error of judgement to contradict me, my friend. Don’t do it again. We will go to the room together, and you shall prove that the occupant is a gentleman, and not my daughter.’
‘Impossible, sir,’ said Jules.
‘Scarcely that,’ said Racksole, and he took Jules by the sleeve. The millionaire knew for a certainty that Nella occupied No. 111, for he had examined the room with her, and himself seen that her trunks and her maid and herself had arrived there in safety. ‘Now open the door,’ whispered Racksole, when they reached No.111.
‘I must knock.’
‘That is just what you mustn’t do. Open it. No doubt you have your pass-key.’
Confronted by the revolver, Jules readily obeyed, yet with a deprecatory gesture, as though he would not be responsible for this outrage against the decorum of hotel life. Racksole entered. The room was brilliantly lighted.
‘A visitor, who insists on seeing you, sir,’ said Jules, and fled.