"I'm afraid you are not very well, Mr. Baxter," I said at length. "Perhaps the heat is too much for you, or we are walking too fast? This is my hotel. Won't you come inside and take a glass of wine or something to revive you?"
He nodded his head eagerly. Large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and I saw that he was quite unstrung. "I am not well—not at all well."
As soon as we reached the smoking-room I rang for two brandies and sodas. When they arrived he drank his off almost at a gulp, and in a few seconds was pretty well himself again.
"Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Hatteras," he said. "I think we must have walked up the hill a little too fast for my strength. Now, I must be going back to the town. I find I have forgotten something."
Almost by instinct I guessed his errand. He was going to despatch another telegram. Resolved to try the effect of one parting shot, I said:
"Perhaps you do not happen to be going near the telegraph office again? If you are, should I be taxing your kindness too much if I asked you to leave a message there for me? I find I have forgotten one."
He bowed and simply said: "With much pleasure."
He pronounced it "pleesure," and as he said it he licked his lips in his usual self-satisfied fashion. I wondered how he would conduct himself when he saw the message I was going to write.
Taking a form from a table near where I sat, I wrote the following:
"John Nicholson,
"Langham Hotel, London.