“Yes, they will, if you tell them how you fooled me. If they object then, call for their resignations and engage a new force.”
CHAPTER XXXII. — “IT WAS SO SUDDEN”
The Hotel Cawthorne was, in some respects, a correct designation but in others a misnomer. It had rooms to let, or rather suites, and it had a clerk. So far, a hostelry. It had no dining room, no bar, no billiard room, no news-stand, no barber shop, no boot-black, no laundry—and in these respects, at least, it belied its name.
Some childless couples, some aged ones with married children, many young men, a few confirmed old bachelors, and a few unmarried women roomed therein. On stormy days, or when their inclinations so prompted, the tenants could have meals served in their rooms at a marked increase over hotel rates.
But the “Cawthorne” was exclusive, and for that reason, principally, Miss Dana had chosen it as her city domicile. Tenants were not introduced to each other, and one could live a year within its walls without being obliged to say good morning to any one, with the possible exceptions of the housekeeper, or the elevator man, but that was not compulsory, but depended upon the tenant's initiative.
Every hotel has an “out”; at the “Cawthorne” it was an “in.” The “in” was Mr. Lorenzo Cass, the clerk and general factotum. His besetting sin was inordinate curiosity, but it was this oftentime disagreeable quality which particularly commended him to the ex-Rev. Arthur Borrowscale, the owner of the “Cawthorne.”
Mr. Borrowscale had not given up the ministry on account of advanced age, for he was only forty; nor on account of physical infirmity, for he was a rugged specimen of manhood and enjoyed the best of health. His critics, and all successful men have them, declared that he had forsaken the service of God for that of Mammon. While officiating, he had received a large salary. Being a bachelor, he had lived economically and invested his savings in real estate. He was the owner of six tenement houses—models of their kind, and the “Cawthorne.” Before leaving college, he had loved a young girl named Edith Cawthorne. She had died, and at her grave he had parted with her,—and love of women, but, that sentiment was not wholly dead within him, the name of his hotel attested.
He had another attribute; he was intensely moral. The “Cawthorne” was his pride, but he had a constant fear that some undesirable—that is, immoral—person would find lodgment in his caravansary. For certain reasons, Mr. Cass was indispensable. He had been a “high roller” until he came under the Rev. Mr. Borrowscale's tutelage.