to interview the manager.
“There is no other way out, sir, unless she went down the service stairs.”
“It was that cursed maid, the Welsh woman,” snarled Jeffrey. “Who is she? Can I see her?”
“She went off duty this afternoon, sir,” said the manager. “Is there anything I can do? Perhaps the lady has gone out for a little walk? Does she know London?”
Jeff did not stop to reply: he fled up the stairs, hack to the room, and made a quick search. The girl’s dressing-case, which he knew had been taken into the bedroom, was gone. Something on the floor attracted his attention. He picked it up, and read the few scribbled lines, torn from a notebook; and as he read, a light came into his eyes. Very carefully he folded the crumpled sheet and put it into his pocket. Then he went back to his sitting-room, and sat for a long time in the big armchair, his legs thrust out before him, his hands deep in his trousers pockets and his thoughts were not wholly unpleasant.
The light was now nearly gone, and he got up.
“Room thirteen,” he said. “Room thirteen is going to hold a few surprises tonight!”
13
To Parker, the valet, as he laid out Johnny’s dress clothes, there was a misfortune and a tragedy deeper than any to which Johnny had been a spectator. Johnny, loafing into his bedroom, a long, black, ebonite cigarette-holder between his teeth, found his man profoundly agitated.
“The buckle of your white dress waistcoat has in some unaccountable way disappeared,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m extremely sorry, sir, because this is the only white dress waistcoat you have.”
“Be cheerful,” said Johnny. “Take a happier view of life. You can tie the tapes behind. You could even sew me together, Parker. Are you an expert needle-worker, or do you crochet?”
“My needlework has been admired, sir,” said Parker complacently. “I think yours is an excellent suggestion. Otherwise, the waistcoat will not sit as it should. Especially in the case of a gentleman with your figure.”
“Parker,” said Johnny, as he began to dress leisurely, “have you ever killed a man?”
“No, sir, I have never killed a man,” said Parker gravely. “When I was a young man, I once ran over a cat – I was a great cyclist in my youth.”
“But you never killed a man? And, what is more, you’ve never even wanted to kill a man?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I ever have,” said Parker after a few moments’ consideration, as though it were possible that some experience had been his which had been overlooked in the hurry of his answering.
“It is quite a nice feeling, Parker. Is there a hip pocket to these – yes, there is,” he said, patting his trousers.
“I’m sorry there is,” said Parker, “very sorry indeed. Gentlemen get into the habit of carrying their cigarette cases in the hip pocket, with the result that the coat tail is thrown out of shape. That is where the dinner jacket has its advantages – the Tuxedo, as an American gentleman once called it, though I’ve never understood why a dinner jacket should be named after a Scottish town.”
“Tuxedo is in Dixie,” said Johnny humorously, “and Dixie is America’s lost Atlantis. Don’t worry about the set of my tail coat. I am not carrying my cigarette case there.”
“Anything more bulky would of course be worse, sir,” said Parker, and Johnny did not carry the discussion any farther.
“Get me a cab,” he ordered.
When Parker returned, he found his master was fully dressed.
“You will want your cane, sir. Gentlemen are carrying them now in evening dress. There is one matter I would like to speak to you about before you go – it is something that has been rather worrying me for the past few days.”
Johnny was leaving the room, and turned.
“Anything serious?” he asked, for a moment deceived.
“I don’t like telling you, sir, but I have discussed the matter with very knowledgeable people, and they are agreed that
“There is no other way out, sir, unless she went down the service stairs.”
“It was that cursed maid, the Welsh woman,” snarled Jeffrey. “Who is she? Can I see her?”
“She went off duty this afternoon, sir,” said the manager. “Is there anything I can do? Perhaps the lady has gone out for a little walk? Does she know London?”
Jeff did not stop to reply: he fled up the stairs, hack to the room, and made a quick search. The girl’s dressing-case, which he knew had been taken into the bedroom, was gone. Something on the floor attracted his attention. He picked it up, and read the few scribbled lines, torn from a notebook; and as he read, a light came into his eyes. Very carefully he folded the crumpled sheet and put it into his pocket. Then he went back to his sitting-room, and sat for a long time in the big armchair, his legs thrust out before him, his hands deep in his trousers pockets and his thoughts were not wholly unpleasant.
The light was now nearly gone, and he got up.
“Room thirteen,” he said. “Room thirteen is going to hold a few surprises tonight!”
13
To Parker, the valet, as he laid out Johnny’s dress clothes, there was a misfortune and a tragedy deeper than any to which Johnny had been a spectator. Johnny, loafing into his bedroom, a long, black, ebonite cigarette-holder between his teeth, found his man profoundly agitated.
“The buckle of your white dress waistcoat has in some unaccountable way disappeared,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m extremely sorry, sir, because this is the only white dress waistcoat you have.”
“Be cheerful,” said Johnny. “Take a happier view of life. You can tie the tapes behind. You could even sew me together, Parker. Are you an expert needle-worker, or do you crochet?”
“My needlework has been admired, sir,” said Parker complacently. “I think yours is an excellent suggestion. Otherwise, the waistcoat will not sit as it should. Especially in the case of a gentleman with your figure.”
“Parker,” said Johnny, as he began to dress leisurely, “have you ever killed a man?”
“No, sir, I have never killed a man,” said Parker gravely. “When I was a young man, I once ran over a cat – I was a great cyclist in my youth.”
“But you never killed a man? And, what is more, you’ve never even wanted to kill a man?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I ever have,” said Parker after a few moments’ consideration, as though it were possible that some experience had been his which had been overlooked in the hurry of his answering.
“It is quite a nice feeling, Parker. Is there a hip pocket to these – yes, there is,” he said, patting his trousers.
“I’m sorry there is,” said Parker, “very sorry indeed. Gentlemen get into the habit of carrying their cigarette cases in the hip pocket, with the result that the coat tail is thrown out of shape. That is where the dinner jacket has its advantages – the Tuxedo, as an American gentleman once called it, though I’ve never understood why a dinner jacket should be named after a Scottish town.”
“Tuxedo is in Dixie,” said Johnny humorously, “and Dixie is America’s lost Atlantis. Don’t worry about the set of my tail coat. I am not carrying my cigarette case there.”
“Anything more bulky would of course be worse, sir,” said Parker, and Johnny did not carry the discussion any farther.
“Get me a cab,” he ordered.
When Parker returned, he found his master was fully dressed.
“You will want your cane, sir. Gentlemen are carrying them now in evening dress. There is one matter I would like to speak to you about before you go – it is something that has been rather worrying me for the past few days.”
Johnny was leaving the room, and turned.
“Anything serious?” he asked, for a moment deceived.
“I don’t like telling you, sir, but I have discussed the matter with very knowledgeable people, and they are agreed that
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