He would, of course, have preferred to be upon a different footing.  It had been a pleasure to have her speak to him during the drive,—­they had exchanged a few trivial remarks in the general conversation.  It was a greater pleasure to have her ask a favor of him,—­a pleasure which, in this instance, was partly offset when he interpreted her request to mean that he was to look for Tom Delamere.  He accepted the situation gracefully, however, and left the ladies alone.

Knowing Delamere’s habits, he first went directly to the bar-room,—­the atmosphere would be congenial, even if he were not drinking.  Delamere was not there.  Stepping next into the office, he asked the clerk if young Mr. Delamere had been at the hotel.

“Yes, sir,” returned the man at the desk, “he was here at luncheon, and then went out fishing in a boat with several other gentlemen.  I think they came back about three o’clock.  I’ll find out for you.”

He rang the bell, to which a colored boy responded.

“Front,” said the clerk, “see if young Mr. Delamere’s upstairs.  Look in 255 or 256, and let me know at once.”

The bell-boy returned in a moment.

“Yas, suh,” he reported, with a suppressed grin, “he’s in 256, suh.  De do’ was open, an’ I seed ’im from de hall, suh.”

“I wish you’d go up and tell him,” said Ellis, “that—­What are you grinning about?” he asked suddenly, noticing the waiter’s expression.

“Nothin’, suh, nothin’ at all, suh,” responded the negro, lapsing into the stolidity of a wooden Indian.  “What shall I tell Mr. Delamere, suh?”

“Tell him,” resumed Ellis, still watching the boy suspiciously,—­“no, I’ll tell him myself.”

He ascended the broad stair to the second floor.  There was an upper balcony and a parlor, with a piano for the musically inclined.  To reach these one had to pass along the hall upon which the room mentioned by the bell-boy opened.  Ellis was quite familiar with the hotel.  He could imagine circumstances under which he would not care to speak to Delamere; he would merely pass through the hall and glance into the room casually, as any one else might do, and see what the darky downstairs might have meant by his impudence.

It required but a moment to reach the room.  The door was not wide open, but far enough ajar for him to see what was going on within.

Two young men, members of the fast set at the Clarendon Club, were playing cards at a small table, near which stood another, decorated with an array of empty bottles and glasses.  Sprawling on a lounge, with flushed face and disheveled hair, his collar unfastened, his vest buttoned awry, lay Tom Delamere, breathing stertorously, in what seemed a drunken sleep.  Lest there should be any doubt of the cause of his condition, the fingers of his right hand had remained clasped mechanically around the neck of a bottle which lay across his bosom.

Ellis turned away in disgust, and went slowly back to the ladies.