“She? What she?” demanded Sampson, affecting perplexity.
No. 7 was staggered. It was a long time before he could say: “Well, holy Smoke!” And then, as Sampson still waited: “Why, her, of course—who else?”
Sampson appeared to understand at last. He said: “A ripping good hotel, isn't it?”
“A peach,” said No. 7, and then they parted.
That evening Sampson dined at the Vanderbilt. At first, like No. 7, he wasn't quite sure whether he would dine upstairs or in the Della Robbia room. He went over the ground very thoroughly before deciding. At eight o'clock he disconsolately selected the main dining-room and ate, without appetite, a lonely but excellent dinner.
He wondered if No. 7 could have lied to him.
CHAPTER V
He also dropped in at the Vanderbilt for lunch on Thursday.