The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothes neatly folded on his arm.
“Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you’d want to put the matter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin’ old things they are.”
Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had worn yesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with a nostalgia and a desire for them—a home sickness and a clothes sickness—beyond expression.
He was absolutely sure from the valet’s manner that the servants were not “in the know.” A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor of these remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: “I’m Jones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I’m no Lord. Here, gimme those clothes and let me out of this—let’s call it quits.”
The word “police” already dropped held him back. He was an impostor. If he were to declare the facts before Rochester returned, what might be the result? Whatever the result might be one thing was certain, it would be unpleasant. Besides, he was no prisoner, once downstairs he could leave the house.
So instead of saying: “I’m Victor Jones of Philadelphia,” he said: “Take them away,” and finding himself alone once more he sat down to consider.
Rochester must have gone through his pockets, not for loot, but for the purpose of removing any article that might cast suspicion, or raise the suspicion that he, Jones, was not Rochester. That seemed plain enough, and there was an earnestness of purpose in the fact that was disturbing.
There was no use in thinking, however. He would go downstairs and make his escape. He was savagely hungry, but he reckoned the Savoy was good enough for one more meal—if he could get there.
Leaving the watch and chain—unambitious to add a charge of larceny to his other troubles, should Fate arrest him before the return of Rochester, he came down the corridor to a landing giving upon a flight of stairs, up which, save for the gradient, a coach and horses might have been driven.
The place was a palace. Vast pictures by gloomy old artists, pictures of men in armour, men in ruffs, women without armour or ruffs, or even a rag of chiffon, pictures worth millions of dollars no doubt, hung from the walls of the landing, and the wall flanking that triumphant staircase.