I say that I was astonished, but such a feeling soon gave place to others; and when I brought up my car with a dash to the door of the hotel, and the gold-laced porter helped the fat old gentleman out, curiosity took the place of wonder. I became as anxious as a parlourmaid at a keyhole to know what Madame would have to say to this twenty-stone husband, and, what particular terms of endearment he would choose for his reply. Certainly if pleasurable anticipation is to be denoted by smiles, he found no fault with his present situation, for he grinned like a gorilla when he got down, and, nodding to me quite affably, he asked:
"Upon which floor is Madame Clara staying, did you say?"
"The third floor—number 113."
"Ah," says he, adjusting his glasses and turning round to go in, "that is an unlucky number, my friend," and without another word he entered the hotel and left me there.
Of course, I didn't expect him to talk to me, was not looking for a tip from Madame's own husband, but I had expected a question or two; and when he had departed the porter and I stopped there gossiping a bit, for it was likely that the car might be wanted again that night—and, to be truthful, I more than half hoped that Madame would send for me.
"What's up?" asks the porter—he passes for a foreigner, but I happen to know he was born just off Soho. "What's up, matey?"
"Why," says I, "that's just what I'd like to know myself. Can't you tell the chambermaid at 113 to find out?"
"The maid's off. Is that old cove licensed?"
"All in order at Scotland Yard," says I. "He's took out a license to drive, and his papers are passed. That's my missis' husband."
"Oh," he remarked, in a dreamy kind of way, "which one?"