ng waiters--"just slip
across to the office and find out the number of this gentleman's room."

The waiter hurried away and speedily returned with the proprietor of the
hotel, a little man in check trousers and a frock coat, with a bald head
and an anxious, yet resigned eye which was obviously prepared for the
worst. His demeanour was that of a man who, already overloaded by
misfortune, was bracing his sinews to bear the last straw. As he
approached the group near the alcove table he smoothed his harassed
features into an expression of solicitude, and, addressing himself to
the man who was supporting the young man on the floor, said, in a voice
intended to be sympathetic,

"I thought I had better come myself, Sir Henry. I could not understand
from Antoine what you wanted or what had happened. Antoine said
something about somebody dying in the breakfast-room----"

"Nothing of the sort!" snapped the gentleman addressed as Sir Henry,
shifting his posture a little so as to enable the young man to lean
against his shoulder. "Haven't you eyes in your head, Willsden? Cannot
you see for yourself that this gentleman has merely had a fainting
fit?"

"I'm delighted to hear it, Sir Henry," replied the hotel proprietor. But
his face expressed no visible gratification. To a man who had had his
hotel emptied by a Zeppelin raid the difference between a single guest
fainting instead of dying was merely infinitesimal.

"Who is this gentleman, and what's the number of his room?" continued
Sir Henry. "He will be better lying quietly on his bed."

"His name is Ronald, and his room is No. 32--on the first floor, Sir
Henry."

"Very good. I'll take him up there at once."

"Shall I help you, Sir Henry? Perhaps he could be carried up. One of the
waiters could take his feet, or perhaps it would be better to have two."

"There's not the slightest necessity. He'll be able to walk in a
minute--with a little assistance. Ah, that's better!" The abrupt manner
in which Sir Henry addressed the hotel proprietor insensibly softened
itself into the best bedside manner when he spoke to the patient on the
carpet, who, from a sitting posture, was now endeavouring to struggle to
his feet. "You think you can get up, eh? Well, it won't do you any harm.
That's the way!" Sir Henry assisted the young man to rise, and supported
him with his arm. "Now, the next thing is to get him to his room. No,
no, not you, Willsden--you're too small. Where's that gentlem