A Bid for Fortune - Guy Boothby (ready player one ebook TXT) 📗

a red dot on it to the porter in the hall, and to be shown to the room at once. I don’t understand it at all.”

The manager paused for a moment, and then said deliberately⁠—

“Hangchow is in China, Bloemfontein is in South Africa.”

“What a wonderful man you are, to be sure, Mr. McPherson! I never can think how you manage to carry so much in your head.”

There spoke the true woman. And it was a move in the right direction, for the manager was susceptible to her gentle influence, as she had occasion to know.

At this juncture the head waiter appeared upon the scene, and took up a position just inside the doorway, as if he were afraid of injuring the carpet by coming further.

“Is No 22 ready, Williams?”

“Quite ready, sir. The wine is on the ice, and cook tells me he’ll be ready to dish punctual to the moment.”

“The letter says, ‘no electric light; candles with red shades.’ Have you put on those shades I got this morning?”

“Just seen it done this very minute, sir.”

“And let me see, there was one other thing.” He took the letter from the chief bookkeeper’s hand and glanced at it.

“Ah, yes, a porcelain saucer, and a small jug of new milk upon the mantelpiece. An extraordinary request, but has it been attended to?”

“I put it there myself, sir.”

“Who wait?”

“Jones, Edmunds, Brooks, and Tomkins.”

“Very good. Then I think that will do. Stay! You had better tell the hall porter to look out for three gentlemen presenting plain visiting cards with a little red spot on them. Let Brooks wait in the hall, and when they arrive tell him to show them straight up to the room.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

The head waiter left the room, and the manager stretched himself in his chair, yawned by way of showing his importance, and then said solemnly⁠—

“I don’t believe they’ll any of them turn up; but if they do, this Dr. Nikola, whoever he may be, won’t be able to find fault with my arrangements.”

Then, leaving the dusty high road of business, he and his companion wandered in the shady bridle-paths of love to the end that when the chief bookkeeper returned to her own department she had forgotten the strange dinner party about to take place upstairs, and was busily engaged upon a calculation as to how she would look in white satin and orange blossoms, and, that settled, fell to wondering whether it was true, as Miss Joyce, a subordinate, had been heard to declare, that the manager had once shown himself partial to a certain widow with reputed savings and a share in an extensive egg and dairy business.

At ten minutes to eight precisely a hansom drew up at the steps of the hotel. As soon as it stopped, an undersized gentleman, with a clean-shaven countenance, a canonical corporation, and bow legs, dressed in a decidedly clerical garb, alighted. He paid and discharged his cabman, and then took from his ticket pocket an ordinary white visiting card, which he presented to the gold-laced individual who had opened the apron. The latter, having noted the red spot, called a waiter, and the reverend gentleman was immediately escorted upstairs.

Hardly had the attendant time to return to his station in the hall, before a second cab made its appearance, closely followed by a third. Out of the second jumped a tall, active, well-built man of about thirty years of age. He was dressed in evening dress of the latest fashion, and to conceal it from the vulgar gaze, wore a large Inverness cape of heavy texture. He also in his turn handed a white card to the porter, and, having done so, proceeded into the hall, followed by the occupant of the last cab, who had closely copied his example. This individual was also in evening dress, but it was of a different stamp. It was old-fashioned and had seen much use. The wearer, too, was taller than the ordinary run of men, while it was noticeable that his hair was snow-white, and that his face was deeply pitted with smallpox. After disposing of their hats and coats in an anteroom, they reached room No. 22, where they found the gentleman in clerical costume pacing impatiently up and down.

Left alone, the tallest of the trio, who for want of a better title we may call the Best Dressed Man, took out his watch, and having glanced at it, looked at his companions.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with a slight American accent, “it is three minutes to eight o’clock. My name is Eastover!”

“I’m glad to hear it, for I’m most uncommonly hungry,” said the next tallest, whom I have already described as being so marked by disease. “My name is Prendergast!”

“We only wait for our friend and host,” remarked the clerical gentleman, as if he felt he ought to take a share in the conversation, and then, as if an afterthought had struck him, he continued, “My name is Baxter!”

They shook hands all round with marked cordiality, seated themselves again, and took it in turns to examine the clock.

“Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting our host before?” asked Mr. Baxter of Mr. Prendergast.

“Never,” replied that gentleman, with a shake of his head. “Perhaps Mr. Eastover has been more fortunate?”

“Not I,” was the brief rejoinder. “I’ve had to do with him off and on for longer than I care to reckon, but I’ve never set eyes on him up to date.”

“And where may he have been the first time you heard from him?”

“In Nashville, Tennessee,” said Eastover. “After that, Tahupapa, New Zealand; after that, Papeete, in the Society Islands; then Peking, China. And you?”

“First time, Brussels; second, Monte Video; third, Mandalay, and then the Gold Coast, Africa. It’s your turn, Mr. Baxter.”

The clergyman glanced at the timepiece. It was exactly eight o’clock.

“First time, Cabul, Afghanistan; second, Nijni Novgorod, Russia; third, Wilcannia, Darling River, Australia; fourth, Valparaiso, Chile; fifth, Nagasaki, Japan.”

“He is evidently a great traveller and a most mysterious person.”

“He is more than that,” said Eastover