“Well?” he began again.
“Good-night,” said Westerham; and turning on his heel he walked contemptuously away, leaving the baffled detective to make what excuses he could to the night porter, who, ignorant of the detective's identity, was beginning to suspect him of being no more honest than he should be.
Westerham slept badly, and awoke, after a succession of uneasy dreams, at about nine o'clock in response to a knock at his door.
To his surprise it was neither the boots nor the chambermaid who entered at his bidding; instead there stood before him a tall, cadaverous man, wearing a long black frock-coat, whom he instantly recognised as the manager.
The manager closed the door and walked over to Westerham's bedside. His manner was at once offensive and deferential.
“You will have to excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I thought it better to speak to you in your own room than to rouse any remark by sending a message requesting you to speak to me in mine.
“I am aware that Lord Dunton called to visit you here, and I know sufficient about his lordship to feel no uneasiness about his friends as a rule. But really—you must pardon my saying so—you make things a little awkward in this hotel.”
Westerham sat up in bed and looked at the man quizzically.
“Your appearances and disappearances,” continued the manager, avoiding Westerham's eyes, “have already led to considerable comment. Besides, after inquiry this morning, I discovered that Mr. Rookley from Scotland Yard was here waiting for you till the small hours. Fortunately the night porter did not know who he was, or things would have been still more awkward.”
“On the other hand,” suggested Westerham, “it might have been that Rookley called on me for the purpose of consulting me rather than of holding an investigation as to my movements.”