rnoon of his return to London. She
had seen him twice or three times, and he had struck her as a coldly
decorous person, tall, white-faced, slow speaking; the last man to
behave violently or surprise a head chambermaid in any way. On the
morning of his departure she was told by the first-floor waiter that the
occupant of Room 26 had complained of an uproar in the night, and almost
immediately she was summoned to see Benham.

He was standing facing the door and in a position which did a little
obscure the condition of the room behind him. He was carefully dressed,
and his manner was more cold and decorous than ever. But one of his
hands was tied up in a white bandage.

"I am going this morning," he said, "I am going down now to breakfast. I
have had a few little accidents with some of the things in the room and
I have cut my hand. I want you to tell the manager and see that they are
properly charged for on the bill.... Thank you."

The head chambermaid was left to consider the accidents.

Benham's things were all packed up and the room had an air of having
been straightened up neatly and methodically after a destructive
cataclysm. One or two items that the chambermaid might possibly have
overlooked in the normal course of things were carefully exhibited. For
example, the sheet had been torn into half a dozen strips and they were
lying side by side on the bed. The clock on the mantelpiece had
been knocked into the fireplace and then pounded to pieces. All the
looking-glasses in the room were smashed, apparently the electric lamp
that stood on the night table by the bedside had been wrenched off and
flung or hammered about amidst the other breakables. And there was
a considerable amount of blood splashed about the room. The head
chambermaid felt unequal to the perplexities of the spectacle and
summoned her most convenient friend, the head chambermaid on the third
floor, to her aid. The first-floor waiter joined their deliberations
and several housemaids displayed a respectful interest in the matter.
Finally they invoked the manager. He was still contemplating the scene
of the disorder when the precipitate retreat of his subordinates warned
him of Benham's return.

Benham was smoking a cigarette and his bearing was reassuringly
tranquil.

"I had a kind of nightmare," he said. "I am fearfully sorry to have
disarranged your room. You must charge me for the inconvenience as well
as for the damage."

31

"An ar