He hurried upstairs again to report that a friend with whom he travelled had just driven away to the hotel with all the baggage.
“And the bags?” cried the other, in a sort of horror.
“Yes, the bags, of course; but I 'll go after him. What 's the chief hotel called?”
“The Trombetta.”
“I don't think that was the name.”
“The Czar de Russie?”
“No, nor that”
“Perhaps Feder?”
“Yes, that's it. Just send some one to show me the way, and I 'll be back immediately. I suspect my unlucky breakfast must be prorogued to luncheon-time.”
“Not a bit of it!” cried a fine, fresh-looking, handsome man, who entered the room with a riding-whip in his hand; “come in and take share of mine.”