The man in the green baize apron knocked at Mr. Ducksmith’s door and entered the room.
“I have come for the baggage of monsieur,” said he.
“Baggage? What baggage?” asked Mr. Ducksmith, sitting up.
“I have descended the baggage of Monsieur Pujol,” said the porter in his stumbling English, “and of madame, and put them in a cab, and I naturally thought monsieur was going away, too.”
“Going away!” He rubbed his eyes, glared at the porter, and dashed into his wife’s room. It was empty. He dashed into Aristide’s room. It was empty, too. Shrieking inarticulate anathema, he rushed downstairs, the man in the green baize apron following at his heels.
Not a soul was in the vestibule. No cab was at the door. Mr. Ducksmith turned upon his stupefied satellite.
“Where are they?”
“They must have gone already. I filled the cab. Perhaps Monsieur Pujol and madame have gone before to make arrangements.”
“Where have they gone to?”