It might be a fool’s errand which had brought him over, but he was determined, with the bulldog tenacity of his nature, to see it through to the end.
Arrived at the hotel, he deposited his Gladstone-bag in the hall, and then, to pass the time, inspected the visitors’ list, preparatory to writing down his own name.
Presently he uttered a whistle, as he came to the entry—
‘Lord and Lady Ombermere and family, London.’
He turned to the clerk of the office, and said carelessly in French—
‘I see Lord Ombermere’s name down. Is his lordship still here?’
‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘He has been here all the winter. Unfortunately, since the warm weather began, milord has been very ill, and since last week he has been almost given up by the physicians.’