Proud Kelmscott as he was by birth and nature,
he slunk through the streets like a guilty man, fancying all eyes
were fixed suspiciously upon him. Then he returned to the hotel
in a burning heat, went into the smoking room on purpose like an
honest man, and rang the bell for the servant boldly.
"Bring my bill, please," he said to the waiter who answered it. "I
go at seven o'clock."
"Yes, sir," the waiter replied, with official promptitude. "Directly,
sir. What number?"
"I forget the number," Guy answered, with a beating heart; "but
the name's Billington."
"Yes, sir," the waiter responded once more, in the self-same unvaried
tone, and went off to the office.
Guy waited in profound suspense, half expecting the waiter to
come back for the number again; but to his immense surprise and
mystification, the fellow didn't. Instead of that, he returned
some minutes later, all respectful attention, bringing the bill on
a salver, duly headed and lettered, "Mr. Billington, number 40."
In unspeakable trepidation, Guy paid it and walked away. Never
before in all his life had he been surrounded so close on every
side by a thick hedge of impenetrable and inexplicable mystery.
Then a new terror seized him.
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