The principal hotel faced one side of a melancholy square, and was called "The Royal Victoria," out of compliment to the reigning monarch. It was a large barrack, with staring windows, and a flight of white steps leading up to a deserted hall. No busy waiters, no genial landlord or buxom barmaid, not even the sound of cheerful voices. Cats slept on the steps and fowls clucked in the square, while a melancholy waiter, peering out of the window, put the finishing touch to the lamentable dreariness of the scene. The sign "Royal Victoria" should have been removed out of very shame, and the word "Ichabod" written up in its place. The landlord was lacking in humor to let things remain as they were.
However, Tait, being hungry and dusty and tired, consoled himself with the reflection that it was at all events an hotel, and speedily found himself the sole occupant of the dining room, attended to by the melancholy waiter. The viands provided were by no means bad, and the wine was undeniably good; and small wonder, seeing it had been in the cellars for a quarter of a century for want of someone to drink it. This fact was confided to Tait by his sad Ganymede.
"We used to see a sight of company here," said this elderly person when he appeared with the claret, "but, bless you, it's like Babylon the fallen now, sir. You're the first gentleman as I have seen here for a week."
"Shouldn't think it would pay to keep the hotel open."
"It don't, sir," replied the waiter with conviction, "but master is well off—made his money in the days when Horriston was Horriston, and keeps this place as a sort of hobby. We have a club here in the evenings, sir, and that makes things a bit lively."
"Have you been here long?" asked Tait, noticing how gray and wrinkled was this despondent servitor.
"Over thirty years, sir," responded Ganymede, with a sigh as though the memory was too much for him; "man and boy I've been here thirty years."
"I'm glad of that. You're the man I want. Got a good memory?"
"Pretty good, sir. Not that there's much to remember," and he sighed again.
"H'm. Have you any recollection of a murder which took place at The Laurels twenty-five years ago?"