The night-clerk scowled after him, and then retired behind the key-rack to consult the operator.
“What's the matter with you?” he demanded. “Zimmerlein's sore as a crab about not getting a message that came in at nine,—he says,—and he 's going to raise hell about it.”
“Nobody called him up,—not till just a few minutes ago. It's the old gag. I heard what the guy said to Zimmerlein,—about calling up at nine and giving directions and all that bunk,—and I had to hold my tongue between my teeth to keep from butting in and telling him he was a liar, and—”
“Tell that to Mr. Coxhorn in the morning,” broke in the clerk, and moved languidly away. That was the extent of his investigations.
The Helvetia was a brisk five minutes' walk from Zimmerlein's hotel. He did it in three.
“Is Mr. Prince entertaining in his rooms or in the café?” he inquired at the desk.
“In the café, Mr. Zimmerlein.”
“Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, he sauntered up to a table at which a party of seven or eight people were seated. Nodding and smiling in his most amiable manner to the ladies, he laid his hand on the shoulder of one of the men.
“Sorry, old man, but they didn't give me your message. I should have been sitting on the doorstep waiting for you, if I'd known you really wanted me. Thanks for calling me up again. It was good of you, and I'll try to make up for all the lost time and trouble by being as agreeable as I know how to be.” He added an encircling smile. The ladies appeared to cheer up measurably.