“Good evening,” said I. “This is Bancroft's Hotel, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wish to secure rooms for this lady and myself, if possible.”
“Yes, sir. This way, sir, if you please. Richard,” this to the boy and in a tone entirely different—the tone of a commanding officer to a private—“see to the gentleman's luggage. This way, sir; thank you, sir.”
I hesitated. “The cabman has not been paid,” I stammered. I was a trifle overawed by the grandeur of the mutton-chops and the “sir.”
“I will attend to that, sir. If you will be good enough to come in, sir.”
We entered and found ourselves in a narrow hall, old-fashioned, homelike and as spotless as the white door. Two more uniforms bowed before us.
“Thank you, sir,” said the member of the Royal Family. It was with difficulty that I repressed the desire to tell him he was quite welcome. His manner of thanking me seemed to imply that we had conferred a favor.
“I will speak to Mr. Jameson,” he went on, with another bow. Then he left us.
“Is—is that Mr. Bancroft?” whispered Hephzy.