“What the devil do you mean? Is the fellow at supper?”
Somewhat shocked by the tone I ventured to assume towards the illustrious narrator, the waiter merely bowed his reply.
“Show me to his room,” said I; “I should like to see him.”
“Follow me, if you please, sir,—this way. What name shall I say, sir?”
“You need not mind announcing me,—I’m an old acquaintance,—just show me the room.”
“I beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Meekins, the editor of the ‘Telegraph,’ is engaged with him at present; and positive orders are given not to suffer any interruption.”
“No matter; do as I bid you. Is that it? Oh, I hear his voice. There, that will do. You may go down-stairs, I’ll introduce myself.”
So saying, and slipping a crown into the waiter’s hand, I proceeded cautiously towards the door, and opened it stealthily. My caution was, however, needless; for a large screen was drawn across this part of the room, completely concealing the door, closing which behind me, I took my place beneath the shelter of this ambuscade, determined on no account to be perceived by the parties.