“Are you Keptin Chellenger?”
“That’s right,” said George boldly.
The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away.
“Right-oh,” he said shortly.
They passed to the second floor. . . .
“This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively.
“I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not very light, is it?”
“Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply.
George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss.
That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth into the cannon’s mouth. . . .