He glanced at me with a curious expression in his eyes, and I wondered whether he saw through the forced flippancy of my reply.
“That’s it, is it?” he remarked. “Well, come along, and we’ll do our best to destroy some of your dread enemy, Time, for a while,” and forthwith he hurried me along several miles of streets, bustling among the people right and left, and keeping up a constant chatter which did much to relieve me, as all I need do was to return a fragmentary answer when occasion offered.
Presently, when we had reached a quiet corner, where conversation was much easier, I said,—
“By the way, now I think of it; where are you ‘hanging out’?”
He burst into a loud laugh as he asked,—
“Is it possible you don’t know?”
“’Pon my honour, it never occurred to me to inquire till this moment. Where are you staying?”
“Number 171,” he answered, still laughing.
“Number 171 where—why don’t you speak plainly, and not keep a fellow waiting when he wants to get to his hotel to keep an appointment?”
“What! another engagement!—with the lady whose photograph you were passing to the fellows at the Junior Garrick last night, eh? I heard about it, old fellow,” he exclaimed, evidently thinking he had a fine chance to chaff me. Seeing my frown at the reference, he continued: “Seriously, it is curious you did not know of my whereabouts. My room is 171 at the Charing Cross Hotel, and yours is 172—now do you see why I laughed?”