The young footman resumed. "When you've had a good look round and seen all you want to see—"
"I am Mr. Richardson," I interrupted; "and up to a few minutes ago I supposed myself to be the owner of this house. Here—if you wish to assure yourself—is my card."
His face fell instantly, fell so completely and woefully that I could not help feeling sorry for him. "I beg pardon, sir—most 'umbly, I do indeed. You will do me the justice, sir—I had no idea, as per description, sir, being led to expect a different kind of gentleman altogether.
"You had my telegram, then?"
"Telegram, sir?" He hesitated, searching his memory.
"Certainly—a telegram sent by me at one o'clock this afternoon, or thereabouts—"
Here, with an apology, he left me to attend to a new arrival—a Yellow Dwarf with a decidedly music-hall manner, who nudged him in the stomach and fell upon his neck exclaiming, "My long-lost brother!"
"Cert'nly, sir. You will find the company upstairs, sir." The young man disengaged himself with admirable dignity and turned again to me. "A telegram did you say—"
"Addressed to 'Trewlove, 402, Cromwell Road.'"
"William!" He summoned another footman forward. "This gentleman is inquiring for a telegram sent here this afternoon, addressed 'Trewlove'."