“That I also did,” replied Carolyn Stokes, “and their acquaintance with the American language made them assume that I required a postcard with a view of the cathedral. They have no right,” she went on vehemently, “in these foreign hotels to allow a footman to dine with the other guests. I know it is done, but no one will persuade me that it is right or fair to respectable visitors. It ought to be stopped.”
I sat on the rocking chair and took some violent exercise for a few minutes in order to collect my thoughts. It seemed we were in a somewhat difficult corner. To stay in our room only meant that he would come and knock at the door; the wisest plan appeared to be to effect an escape. Carolyn Stokes, for once, agreed with me.
“I wish Mr. Chasemore were here,” she said.
We went along the corridor very quietly and crept down the staircase. From the last landing we could see him waiting near the desk of the concierge. There was no means of slipping past without being seen.
“I tell you what to do!” I whispered. “You must go and inform him that I have been taken suddenly ill.”
“A good idea,” she said, “but I would so much rather you went and told him that I was ill.”
He tapped with his walking-stick impatiently on the floor, moved to examine letters in the rack. I pulled at Carolyn Stokes’s arm in order to persuade her to make a run for it; before I could arouse her dormant intelligence he had returned to his former position. He glanced at the clock and at his watch; Carolyn Stokes sat on the stairs.
“Meanwhile,” I grumbled, “we are missing valuable moments in a most interesting and historical city.”
“Think,” she said impressively, “think of the fate from which I have saved you.”
The call of “Norman!” came again, but apparently it did not reach his ears. I am a creature of impulse and, without thinking, I imitated the call. He whipped off his cap at once, laid down his walking-stick and started up, taking two steps at a time and coming near to us.