I paced our little street, from the hotel entrance to the glacis, until twenty minutes of six. Heloise did not appear; so doubtless she was safe in her room. Crocker did not appear; so doubtless he was still drunk, over at the Wagon-lits.
I wondered a good deal about Sir Robert.
Finally he entered our street in a rickshaw. I stood squarely in the doorway of the hotel as he stepped down and paid off his coolie. He looked about him with quick, furtive glances as he crossed the walk. His eyes were tired, but heady and bright. There were spots of color on his cheeks.
He had to pass so near to me that he could have touched me. I was staring right at him, expectantly. I wanted to meet his eye, to make him meet mine.
But he cut me. It was the direct cut, such as only an Englishman can administer.
He went on into the building. I hesitated but a second, then turned abruptly and followed him.
He was at the desk, getting his mail.
I came to a stop behind him, and fingered a magazine that was on a table there. It was my intention to make him speak.
The manager came forward from an inner office, brushing his clerk aside. He said something—several sentences—in a low voice and with a hesitating, apologetic manner; then he handed Sir Robert a paper.
The old man adjusted his monocle, lifted the paper, and read it. Then, slowly, he crumpled it in his unsteady fingers and dropped it on the counter.