CHAPTER XLVII.
LIGHT AT LAST.
We were in London again, bowling smoothly along wide stretches of silent, gas-lit streets, empty, and almost deserted now, for it was past two o’clock.
Soon we turned sharply into Northumberland Avenue, and pulled up at the hotel. The man on the box—footman I suppose he was, although he was not in livery—opened the carriage-door for me and then took possession of the small trunk.
“If you will allow me, sir, I will take this up to your room,” he said.
“You needn’t trouble,” I answered. “I can manage.”
He retained possession of it.
“The Count’s orders were, sir, that I should not allow the hotel servants to meddle with it, and that, if possible, I should myself see it deposited in your room. You have no objection, sir, I hope?”
“Not at all,” I answered, turning away. “In fact, the less I have to do with it the better.”
We entered the hotel and, crossing the hall, rang for the lift.
The lift came to a standstill at the third floor and we stepped out on to the corridor. The Count’s servant followed me to my room, deposited the box on a chair at the foot of the bed and wished me good-night.