“I thought I’d just see about that man,” I began.
“What man?” the manager asked, exactly as the porter had asked.
“Look here,” I said, as I was now really annoyed, “it’s all very well giving instructions to the hall-porter, and I can quite understand you want the thing kept as quiet as possible. Of course I know that hotels have a violent objection to corpses. But as I saw the corpse, and was of some assistance to you——”
“Excuse me,” said the manager. “Either you or I must be completely mad. And,” he added, “I don’t think it is myself.”
“Do you mean to say,” I remarked with frosty sarcasm, “that you didn’t enter Room 222 with me this morning at three a.m. and find a dead man there?”
“I mean to say just that,” he answered.
“Well——.” I got no further. I paid my bill and left. But before leaving, I went and carefully examined the door of No. 222. The door plainly showed marks of some iron instrument.
“Here,” I said to the porter as I departed. “Accept this half-crown from me. I admire you.”
I had a serious illness extending over three months. I was frequently delirious, and nearly every day I saw the scene in Room No. 222. In the course of my subsequent travels, I once more found myself, late one night, at the Grand Junction Terminus Hotel.