CHAPTER XXXIII
“Num-bah Nine-ninety-two—Captain Maltravers, please. Nine-ninety-two. Num-bah Nine-ninety-two!”
Thrice the voice of the page—moving and droning out his words in that perfunctory manner peculiar unto the breed of hotel pages the world over—sounded its dreary monotone through the hum of conversation in the rather crowded tearoom without producing the slightest effect; then, of a sudden, the gentleman seated in the far corner reading the daily paper—a tall, fair-haired, fair-moustached gentleman with “The Army” written all over him in capital letters—twitched up his head, listened until the call was given for the fourth time, and, thereupon, snapped his fingers sharply, elevated a beckoning digit, and called out crisply: “Here, my boy—over here—this way!”
The boy went to him immediately, extended a small, circular metal salver, and then, lifting the thumb which held in position the hand-written card thereon, allowed the slip of pasteboard to be removed.
“Gentleman, sir—waiting in the office,” he volunteered.
“Captain Maltravers” glanced at the card, frowned, rose with it still held between his fingers, and within the space of a minute’s time walked into the hotel’s public office and the presence of a short, stout, full-bearded “dumpling” of a man with the florid complexion and the country-cut clothes of a gentleman farmer, who half sat and half leaned upon the arm of a leather-covered settle nervously tapping with the ferule of a thick walking-cane, a boot whose exceedingly high sole and general construction mutely stood sponsor for a withered and shortened leg.
“My dear Yard; I am delighted to see you!” exclaimed the “captain” as he bore down on the little round man and shook hands with him heartily. “Grimshaw told me that you would be coming up to London shortly, but I didn’t allow myself to hope that it would be so soon as this. Gad! it’s a dog’s age since I’ve seen you. Come along up to my own room and let us have a good old-fashioned chat. Key of Nine-ninety-two, please, clerk. Thanks very much. Come along, Yard—this way, old chap!”
With that he linked his arm in his caller’s, bore him clumping and wobbling to the nearby lift, and thence, in due course, to the door of number Nine-ninety-two and the seclusion which lay behind it. He was still chattering away gayly as the lift dropped down out of sight and left them, upon which he shut the door, locked it upon the inside, and stopping long enough to catch up a towel and hang it over the keyhole, turned on his heel and groaned.
“What! am I not to have even a two days’ respite, you indefatigable machine?” he said, as he walked across the room and threw himself into a chair with a sigh of annoyance. “Think! it was only this morning that I ventured upon the first casual bow of a fellow guest with the dear ‘Baron’; only at luncheon we exchanged the first civil word. But the ice was broken and I should have had him ‘roped in’ by teatime—I am sure of it. And now you come and nip my hopes in the bud like this. And in a disguise that a fellow as sharp as he would see through in a wink if he met you.”