These incidents impeded progress, and the passengers from the noon railroad train were disposed to complain and comment, and seemed fit subjects for sympathy, as they interchanged petulant accounts of experiences at the hotel desk, waiting to register. One was apparently not unknown to the clerk now in charge, an affable functionary to the deserving few, altogether stiff and unapproachable to the general public. He was the day clerk, and a far more magnificent individual than the forlorn night bird that languished behind the desk with no company but the wee sma' hours of the clock, and the somnolent bell-boys on their bench, and the watchman, walking hither and thither like a ghost as if his only mission were to be about, and the incoming traveller. The day clerk's courtesy had the grace of a personal compliment as he hurried the book away from the last signer and passed it on to another in the line,—a somewhat portly, red-faced, middle-aged gentleman, with short side-whiskers, of the hairbrush effect and a pale hue, not definitely gray, for he seemed hardly old enough for such tokens of years, and yet the flaxen tint had lost its earlier lustre. His hair was of the same shade, and he wore a stiff hat, a suit of "pepper-and-salt," and a dark overcoat of light weight.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Wray," said the clerk, handing him the pen. "I am sorry I can't give you a room to yourself, but I can put you a bed in your son's room."
The pen was poised uncertainly—the gentleman with the side-whiskers stared.
"Your son got in last night," explained the clerk.
The gentleman still silently stared. He had a close, compact mouth, a cautious mouth, and the lips were now compressed with an expression of waiting incommunicativeness. He evidently had not expected to be confronted with a ready-made family.
The clerk surprised in turn cast on him a glance of keen intentness. In these strenuous times every stranger in the town was liable to suspicion as a Confederate emissary. "I was not on duty, myself, but I thought I saw—ah—here it is," turning the page of the register, "John Wray, Junior, Manchester, England."
For one moment the portly gentleman gazed at the signature as if dumfounded. Then with an air of ready recognition he justified his previous manifestations of extreme surprise by explaining the mistake of the clerk as to the matter of identity.
"Oh, aw, a distant relative," he said, at last. "Ah, aw,—he is the son of a cousin of the same name as mine, 'John Wray.' The younger man is to be associated with me in business. What room? Number ninety?"
And as he was assigned to that haven he took the pen and wrote, "John Wray, Manchester, England."
Thus it was that, awakened by the brisk tap at the door, Julius, leaning out of bed, turned the key, and reached out for the pitcher of ice water for which, being warm and thirsty, he had a drowsy impression that he had rung the bell. Perceiving his mistake, and lifting himself on his elbow, Julius beheld entering this blond and robust stranger, an inexplicable apparition, too solid for a spectre, too prosaic for a fancy.