Finally he entered our street in a rickshaw. I stood squarely in the
doorway of the hotel as he stepped down and paid off his coolie. He
looked about him with quick, furtive glances as he crossed the walk. His
eyes were tired, but heady and bright. There were spots of color on his
cheeks.
He had to pass so near to me that he could have touched me. I was
staring right at him, expectantly. I wanted to meet his eye, to make him
meet mine.
But he cut me. It was the direct cut, such as only an Englishman can
administer.
He went on into the building. I hesitated but a second, then turned
abruptly and followed him.
He was at the desk, getting his mail.
I came to a stop behind him, and fingered a magazine that was on a table
there. It was my intention to make him speak.
The manager came forward from an inner office, brushing his clerk
aside. He said something--several sentences--in a low voice and with a
hesitating, apologetic manner; then he handed Sir Robert a paper.
The old man adjusted his monocle, lifted the paper, and read it. Then,
slowly, he crumpled it in his unsteady fingers and dropped it on the
counter.
“You contemptible scoundrel!” he said, with one sharp glance at the
manager.
“But it is that I do not want to turn out the lady--to the street,” the
manager struggled to explain.
But Sir Robert walked away--into the lounge, where he beckoned a waiter
and deliberately ordered his tea.
I stood there for a few moments, I think, quite motionless. Was it
possible that--
It was Heloise's bill for two weeks.