The railway journey was horribly slow, and it must have been past 11 p.m. before we reached Geneva. We alighted in the Cornavin station, and as they moved at once towards the exit I followed. I expected them to take a carriage and drive off, and was prepared to give chase, when I found they started on foot, evidently to some destination close at hand. It proved to be the Cornavin Hôtel, not a stone's-throw from the station.
They entered, and went straight to the bureau, where the night clerk was at his desk. I heard them ask for a person named Tiler, and without consulting his books the clerk replied angrily:
"Tiler! Tiler! Ma foi, he is of no account, your Tiler. He has gone off from the dinner-table and without paying his bill."
"That shall be made all right," replied Lord Blackadder loftily, as he detailed his name and quality, before which the employé bowed low. "And might I ask," his lordship went on, "whether a certain Mrs. Blair, a lady with her child and its nurse, is staying in the hotel?"
"But certainly, milord. They have been here some days. Salon and suite No. 17."
"At any rate, that's well, Falfani," said Lord Blackadder, with a sigh of satisfaction. "But what of your friend Tiler? Thick-headed dolt, unable to keep awake, I suppose."
At that moment a shabbily dressed person approached Falfani, touched his hat, and offered him a note, saying:
"This must be for you, monsieur. I heard your name—"
"From Tiler, my lord, aha! This explains." And he passed the scrap of paper on to his employer.