As he approached, his chant grew
plainer.
"Mr. Bayne," he was droning. "Room four hundred and three."
I raised a hand in summons, and he paused beside my seat.
"Telephone call for you, sir," he informed me.
With a word to my guardian, I pushed my chair back and crossed the room.
But at the door I found my path barred by the _maitre d'hotel_, who, at
the sight of my progress, had sprung forward, like an arrow from a bow.
"Excuse me, sir. You're not leaving, are you?" The man was actually
breathing hard. Deferential as his bearing was, I saw no cause for the
inquiry, and with some amusement and more annoyance, I wondered if he
suspected me of slipping out to evade my bill.
"No," I said, staring him up and down; "I'm not!" I passed down the hall
to the entrance of the telephone booths. Glancing back, I could see
him still standing there gazing after me; his face, I thought, wore a
relieved expression as he saw whither I was bound.
The queer incident left my mind as I secluded myself, got my connection,
and heard across the wire the indignant accents of Dick Forrest, my
former college chum.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25