'You'd better take it yourself,' said papa. 'You seem rather lame, and your hat's gone.'
'It doesn't matter at all. I can get another cab in an instant. Pray jump in.'
'No; but look here. I haven't half thanked you. After all, you saved my life, you know. Come and see me to-morrow evening, will you, and let me thank you properly. Here's my card—I'm at Morley's.'
'I will come with pleasure to see if you are all right after it, but please don't talk any more about thanks, Mr—Stanley. Here's my card. Good night—Morley's Hotel,' he shouted to the cabman, and as they drove off he mechanically raised his hand to the place where his hat should have been. Have you ever seen a man do that when hat there was none? The effect is peculiar—much like a rustic pulling a forelock when t'squire goes by.
'I hope he will come to-morrow,' said Mr Stanley as the hansom drove off.
'Why, I think he's staying at our hotel, papa. I am almost sure I've seen him at the table d'hôte.'
'Dear, dear! How extraordinary.'
Clare was more than 'almost sure' in fact, she knew perfectly well that this handsome stranger was not only staying at the hotel, but that he in his turn was quite aware of their presence there. Of her presence he could hardly be oblivious, since his eyes had been turned on her without much intermission all through dinner every evening since she had been in town.
Before Clare went to her room that night she managed to possess herself of the slip of cardboard on which was engraved—Michael Litvinoff.
What an uncommon name! How strange that he of all people should have been the one to come forward at the critical moment.