Philip began to feel more sure of himself.  The situation, after all, he realized, was not exactly alarming.

“Very kind of you,” he said.  “My arrangements are all made now, though, and I can’t interfere with them.”

“Well, I’m going to bother you with a few quotations, anyway.  See here, I’ll just run round to see you.  My car is waiting at the door now.  I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.”

“Don’t come before twelve,” Philip begged.  “I shall be busy until then.”

“At twelve o’clock precisely, then,” was the reply.  “I shall hope to induce you to change your mind about luncheon.  It’s quite a long time since we had you at the club.  Good-by!”

Philip set down the telephone.  He was still in his pajamas and the morning was cold, but he suddenly felt a great drop of perspiration on his forehead.  It was the sort of thing, this, which he had expected—­had been prepared for, in fact—­but it was none the less, in its way, gruesome.  There was a further knock at the door, and the waiter reappeared.

“Can I bring you any breakfast, sir?” he enquired.

“What time is it?”

“Half-past nine, sir.”

“Bring me some coffee and rolls and butter,” Philip ordered.

He sprang out of bed, bathed, dressed, and ate his breakfast.  Then he lit a cigarette, repacked his dressing-case, and descended into the hall.  He made his way to the hall porter’s enquiry office.

“I am going to pay some calls in the city,” he announced—­“Mr. Romilly is my name—­and I may not be able to get back here before my boat sails.  I am going on the Elletania.  Can I have my luggage sent there direct?”

“By all means, sir.”

“Every article is properly labelled,” Philip continued.  “Those in my bedroom—­number sixty-seven—­are for the cabin, and those you have in your charge are for the hold.”

“That will be quite all right, sir,” the man assured him pocketing his liberal tip.  “I will see to the matter myself.”

Philip paid his bill at the office and breathed a little more freely as he left the hotel.  Passing a large, plate-glass window he stopped suddenly and stared at his own reflection.  There was something unfamiliar in the hang of his well-cut clothes and fashionable Homburg hat.  It was like the shadow of some one else passing—­some one to whom those clothes belonged.  Then he remembered, remembered with a cold shiver which blanched his cheeks and brought a little agonised murmur to his lips.  The moment passed, however, crushed down, stifled as he had sworn that he would stifle all such memories.  He turned in at a barber’s shop, had his hair cut, and yielded to the solicitations of a fluffy-haired young lady who was dying to go to America if only somebody would take her, and who was sure that he ought to have a manicure before his voyage.  Afterwards he entered a call office and rang up the hotel on the telephone.