VIII
One Minute Past Midnight
WE followed Parslewe’s messenger across the platform to the hotel in a state of mute obedience, being, as Madrasia remarked afterwards, resigned by that time to anything that Parslewe did or commanded. But I think hunger had something to do with our meekness; we had breakfasted early, and had had nothing since, and as far as I was concerned the thought of this hotel and its excellent fare—already known to me—was by no means unwelcome. I turned instinctively towards the coffee-room as we entered, already anticipating its pleasures more than my meeting with Parslewe. But our guide steered us away from it; he took us upstairs, along corridors, down passages, finally opened a door. And there was a private sitting-room, and a table laid for lunch, and on the hearth, warming his coat-tails at a blazing fire, his saturnine countenance wearing a more cynical grin than ever, Parslewe.
He greeted us as coolly and unconcernedly as if we were in his own parlour at Kelpieshaw and had just come down to breakfast; indeed, he scarcely did more than give us a careless good morning, his chief concern just then seemed to be to catch the porter’s attention before he closed the door on us.
“Hi, you!” he called. “Just tell that waiter to bring up lunch, will you?—there’s a good fellow! Well,” he went on, regarding us speculatively as the man went off. “I suppose you’re hungry, eh?”
“Very!” said I.
“Famishing!” declared Madrasia.
He inspected her critically, rubbed his chin, and pointed to a side table.
“Take your things off and throw ’em on there, my dear,” he said. “You can take ’em to your own room afterwards.”
Madrasia, in the act of divesting herself, turned on him.
“Room?” she exclaimed.