Some few days later, in reply to my question, she said that she had heard from her father, who was at the Midland Grand Hotel in Manchester. He would not, however, be in London for two or three weeks, as he was about to leave in two days’ time, by way of Hook of Holland, for Berlin, where he had business.
Therefore, early the following morning, I took train to Manchester, and made inquiry at the big hotel.
“We have no gentleman of that name here, sir,” replied the smart reception clerk, referring to his list. “He hasn’t arrived yet, I expect. A lady was asking for a Mr. Pennington yesterday—a French lady.”
“You don’t know the name, then?”
He replied in the negative.
“No doubt he is expected, if the lady called to see him?”
“No doubt, sir. Perhaps he’ll be here to-day.”
And with that, I was compelled to turn disappointed away. I wandered into the restaurant, and there ate my lunch alone. The place was crowded, as it always is, mostly by people interested in cotton and its products, for it is, perhaps, one of the most cosmopolitan hotels in the whole kingdom. Sick of the chatter and clatter of the place, I paid my bill and passed out into the big smoking-lounge to take my coffee and liqueur and idle over the newspaper.
I was not quite certain whether to remain there the night and watch for Pennington’s arrival, or to return to London. As a matter of fact, so certain had I been of finding him that I had not brought a suit-case.
I suppose I had been in the lounge half-an-hour or so, when I looked up, and then, to my surprise, saw Pennington, smartly dressed, and looking very spruce for his years, crossing from the bureau with a number of letters in his hand. It was apparent that he had just received them from the mail-clerk.