“Excuse me, sir, you’re Mr. Selsbury, aren’t you?”
Gordon went red.
“Yes, I am Mr. Selsbury,” he said with a touch of hauteur. His signature in the visitors’ book was unintelligible. The reception clerk thought it was Silsburg.
“I don’t think I should leave your bag in the hotel, sir,” said the valet gravely.
Something of authority upon the ritual of adventure, he spoke with the best of intentions.
“Next Friday particularly we’ve got a big dinner here—to one of the Colonial Premiers. The hotel will be full of people—you don’t want to meet anybody you know?”
The assumption that he was privy to the clandestine character of Gordon’s movements made the visitor incapable of protest.
“Tell me the train you’re coming by; I’ll meet you at the station with the grip—I’ll put it straight away into the railway parcels office,” said the valet gently, almost tenderly.
Gordon could think of no improvement on this method; at the same time, the valet must be under no misapprehension.
“Thank you—er——”