"No."
Stainton spoke briefly this time, even sharply, and his tone had the effect that he desired for it. He ate his dinner undisturbed.
A more pleasant disturbance than that of the waiter was, however, in store for him. As he left the dining-room and returned to the lobby, ready now for the opera, there brushed by him, en route from the bar-room, a stout man of about thirty-five, with a round face and a high hat perched at the extreme rear of a head almost completely bald.
The two looked at each other.
"I beg your pardon," said the stranger.
"I beg your par——" Stainton began to echo.
But he did not finish, for the stranger, suddenly a stranger no longer, was fairly shouting:
"Hello, hello, hello! What in the name of all that's——"
Stainton's lips broke into a delighted smile, which showed square, white teeth.
"Holt," he said: "George Holt!"