He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked.
“Taxi ready?” he said to the obsequious doorman.
“Yes, sir,—yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are.”
“And here you are,” the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of silver.
“To the Hotel Magnifique,” he said, and his cab rolled away.
During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile shifted. The elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight no one was on duty who had been on at dusk.
After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o’clock Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the door, telephone and elevator all by himself.
This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were rarely out later than one or two in the morning.
On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand of fiction.
At two o’clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth floor.