Love and chivalry were fighting hard with ordinary worldliness, and it was a question which would win.
“I ought to go,” he said at last—“I will go. Heaven knows that I do not—that I will not doubt her; but she is not here, and it is very strange. I will go.”
He went downstairs, all in the most calm and deliberate way, as if everything depended upon his being perfectly cool, and after ringing for one of the servants, he was helped on with his light overcoat, his hat and gloves were handed to him, his black cane with its crutch handle, and he went quietly out into the square. He raised his cane as a hansom cab came by, got in, and was driven to the Channel Hotel, where he paid and dismissed the man.
An attendant was in the vestibule as he entered, and, beckoning to the man, he placed a half-sovereign in his hand, a feeling of shrinking on the increase, and the shame making him hesitate as he asked whether two ladies had come there since eight or nine o’clock.
“Two ladies, without luggage? Yes, sir. And a gentleman. In Number 99, sir.”
Lord Henry hesitated again, for love and chivalry seemed to throw themselves in his way to prevent him from doing what he told himself was a mean action.
But he felt that he must go on now, and, going a little closer to the man, he said:
“Take me up at once, and show me in without announcing my name.”
The man nodded, and led him up the great staircase, passing what seemed to be innumerable rooms before stopping at one where he waited for his lordship to come close up before throwing open the door for him to enter.
The telegram was right so far: Lady Henry Moorpark was there, but she was in company with Ruth.