Another quarter of an hour passed, and then we heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs; it sounded like several people. Then came a knock. I opened the door and saw the waiter who had shown me in, and behind him a number of as disreputable-looking fellows as I have ever met.
“Your visitors, sir,” said the waiter, in his mysterious voice, though with an evident air of surprise, and, I think, of disgust.
“Mine?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Horleens, they wants.”
“But I am not Mr. Horleens. There is some mistake here.”
I addressed a few questions to one of the men, but he was so abashed at the well-dressed appearance of myself and my two guests that, muttering something about “being made a blooming fool of,” the whole party turned and descended again.
“It was the right word, sir,” said the waiter to me. “Some of 'em was to ask for Mr. Horleens.”