He walked to the window and shut it. Result—absolute silence and stifling heat. No matter; anything was better than that infernal drum.
He had shut out the drum, but he had shut in a mosquito. It was in the lace curtain, and its twang brought him again to his feet. He tried to find it in the curtain, failed, pulled the whole curtain down from its attachment, and trampled it under-foot.
Silence, this time unbroken, until one of the fans upon the wall rustled, and from beneath it crept a frightful-looking spider as brown and as broad as a penny.
He did not see it; he was sitting in the arm-chair with his head between his hands, breaking his promise to Jane.
When it was broken he got up, crossed the room, opened the door, and went into the hall.
The Chinese night-porter was sitting like a figure of stone in a blouse of blue silk. Leslie went up to him, spoke some words in a low tone, and handed him some money.
The Chinaman rose and led the way upstairs. Down a passage they went till the guide stopped, pointed to a door, turned, and vanished as silently as he had come.
Leslie went to the door and knocked softly. No answer. He turned the handle, the door opened and he entered—an empty room.
A lamp was burning on a table in one corner, a bed stood close to the window: the bed was empty.
It was Jane’s room, for there lay her trunks. A glove lay on the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, smelt it, and then threw it down. The dressing-table held none of those articles of the toilet one might have expected to see. Beside the lamp on the side-table lay a letter.