The porter, uncertain how to deal with the situation, looked around for help.  The manager of the hotel emerged from the booking office at that moment, and the porter’s appealing look was seen by him.  The manager approached.  He was faultlessly attired, suave in demeanour, and walked with a noiseless step, despite his tendency to corpulence.  It was his daily task to wrestle with some of the manifold difficulties arising out of the eccentricities of human nature as exhibited by a constant stream of arriving and departing guests.  But though he approached the distressed porter with full confidence in his ability to deal with any situation, his eyebrows arched in astonishment as he took in the full details of the intruder’s attire.

“What does this mean, Hawkins?” he exclaimed, in a tone of disapproval.

The porter trembled at the implication that he had grievously failed in his duty by allowing such an individual as Mr. Kemp to get so far within the exclusive portals of Verney’s, and in his nervousness he relaxed from the polish of the hotel porter to his native cockney.

“This ’ere party says ’e wants to see Mr. Holymead, Sir.”

The manager went through the motion of washing a spotlessly clean pair of hands, and then brought the palms together in a gentle clap.  He smiled pityingly at Hawkins and then looked condescendingly at Mr. Kemp.

“Wants to see Mr. Holymead, does he?” he said, transferring his glance to the worried porter.  “And didn’t you tell him that Mr. Holymead has gone to the theatre and won’t be back for some considerable time?”

“That’s a lie!” said Mr. Kemp, who had acquired none of the art of dealing with his fellow men, and was too uneducated to appreciate art in any form.  “I’ve been watching over the other side of the street, and I saw him passing a window not ten minutes ago.  I’m going to see him if I wait here all night.  I’ll soon make meself comfortable on one of them big chairs.”  He pointed to an empty chair beside a man in evening dress, who was holding a conversation with a haughty looking matron.  “You tell Mr. Holymead Mr. Kemp wants to see him,” he said to the manager.

“What name did you say?” asked the manager in a tone which seemed to express astonishment that the lower orders had names.

“Mr. Kemp.  You tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see him on important business.”  He walked towards the vacant chair and seated himself on it.  He dug his toes into the velvet pile carpet with the air of a man who was trying to take anchor.  Fortunately the man on the adjoining chair, and the haughty matron, were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice that the air in their immediate vicinity was being polluted by the presence of a man in shabby clothes and heavy boots.

The manager despatched the porter in search of Mr. Holymead and then went in pursuit of Mr. Kemp.

“Will you come this way, if you please, Mr. Kemp?” he said, with a low bow.