Martin added another bill to his account.
“Where might he live?” he asked soberly, adding, “when the man is sick, we are all brothers.”
“I would not live against that proverb,” said the waiter. “The hotel is directly across the street—there—” The Chinaman pointed to a large bulb, glowing, but marked with age. “His room may be ascertained at the desk,” he added, bowing low.
“Thanks,” said Martin, as The Duke got to his feet, the horrified turmoil within pressing out through his eyes. He clung to the arm of his friend, but once inside the hotel, tried to dash to the stairs. He was stopped, however, by a quiet little gray-headed Chinese clerk.
“Let me get him up,” Martin said to the man. “I’ll see about his rent later.”
“We do not want Mr. Duke,” said the clerk mildly. He was wearing octagonal glasses which were useless but for their dignity.
“Then I must ask you for his room for only a few minutes,” continued Martin.
“A woman waits for him also,” said the Chinaman.
Martin became cold, as though he were facing a crisis of his own.
“Please show me his room,” he insisted, and perhaps it was his unequivocal stare that made the Chinese submit graciously to his demand.