"No—Ch'ing Cross Hotel—luggage waitin' there."
Bobby paused.
Could it be possible that this was the truth? It couldn't be stranger than the truth before him.
"All right," said he. "Charing Cross Hotel, driver."
He said good-bye to Foulkes, got in, and shut the door.
Uncle Simon seemed asleep.
The Charing Cross Hotel was only a very short distance away, and when they got there Bobby, leaving the sleeping one undisturbed, hopped out to make enquiries as to whether a Mr. Pettigrew was staying there; if not, he could go on to Charles Street.
In the hall he found the night porter and Mudd.
"Good heavens! Mr. Robert, what are you doing here?" said Mudd.