“You know where to find me if anything happens––if anything should be the matter?”
“Yes, sir.” Driver raised wooden eyes to his master’s face. “Was you expecting anything to happen, sir?” he asked stolidly.
Micky got red. “No, you fool!”
“Very good, sir,” Driver retorted unmoved.
And so Micky went to Paris. It was dark when he got there, and he drove at once to a small and unpretentious hotel in a narrow side street, where he had never been before, but of which he had heard from Philips.
After all, it was only for a few nights. He did not want to stay in Paris long––Paris always bored him, but he made a little grimace as he looked up at the windows of the hotel. It certainly was a rotten-looking little show, he thought as he followed the concierge into the hall. This, too, was small and unpretentious, with a polished floor and wicker chairs scattered about. There was a kind of winter garden leading from the lounge, where a few neglected palms and ferns were struggling for an existence, and the whole place was silent, almost deserted.
Micky was too late for dinner, but a smiling host, with a short dark beard, assured him that he could have a most excellent supper in less time than he would enumerate of what that supper would consist. Micky said he didn’t care what it was. He followed his suit-case up the wide, shallow stairs to a quaint little room with a low ceiling and polished floor.
He was beginning to feel more at home after all; one could be quiet here and not be eternally running up against people whom one knew; he felt more cheerful when he went down to his supper.
He asked the waiter if there were many people staying there. His tone of voice sounded as if he sincerely hoped 128 there were not, and the waiter tactfully submitted that the place was almost empty.
Micky proceeded with his supper.