“You contemptible scoundrel!” he said, with one sharp glance at the manager.
“But it is that I do not want to turn out the lady—to the street,” the manager struggled to explain.
But Sir Robert walked away—into the lounge, where he beckoned a waiter and deliberately ordered his tea.
I stood there for a few moments, I think, quite motionless. Was it possible that—
It was Heloise's bill for two weeks.
I stepped up to the desk, and asked for the manager. He came out to me.
“I heard you speak of turning out a lady,” I said, looking straight at him. “What did you mean by that?”
He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced that identical crumpled ball of paper that Sir Robert had let fall on the counter. He spread it out, and smoothed down the wrinkles. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “I have make the mistake. It is too bad to think that the lady she can not—”
I snatched up the paper. It was Heloise's bill, for two weeks.
I paid him right then and there—in gold.