'The closet to the right of the door, sir. The first twelve shallow
shelves, counting from the top, sir. They contain a fair selection of
our various cravats. Replicas in bulk are to be found in the third nest
of drawers in your dressing-room, sir.'
'I only want one, my good man. I'm not a regiment. Ah! I stake all on
this one. Not a word, Wilson. No discussion. This is the tie I wear.
What's the time?'
'Eight minutes to eleven, sir.'
'I must be off. I shall be late. I shan't want you any more tonight.
Don't wait for me.'
'Very good, sir.'
Rollo left the room, pale but determined, and hailed a taxi.
* * * * *
It is a pleasant spot, the vestibule of the Carlton Hotel.
Glare--glitter--distant music--fair women--brave men. But one can have
too much of it, and as the moments pass, and she does not arrive, a
chill seems to creep into the atmosphere. We wait on, hoping against
hope, and at last, just as waiters and commissionaires are beginning to
eye us with suspicion, we face the truth. She is not coming. Then out we
crawl into cold, callous Pall Mall, and so home. You have been through
it, dear reader, and so have I.
And so, at eleven forty-five that evening, had Rollo. For a full
three-quarters of an hour he waited, scanning the face of each new
arrival with the anxious scrutiny of a lost dog seeking its master; but
at fourteen minutes to twelve the last faint flicker of hope had died
away.
Pages:
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353