“We’ll struggle back to town I think,” said Mr. Prohack to Carthew, with a pitiable affectation of brightness.  And instead of sitting by Carthew’s side, as previously, he sat behind, and reflected upon the wisdom of Carthew.  He had held that Carthew’s views were warped by a peculiar experience.  He now saw that they were not warped at all, but shapely, sane and incontrovertible.

II

That evening, soon after dark, the Eagle, dusty and unkempt from a journey which had not been free from mishaps, rolled up to the front-door of Mr. Prohack’s original modest residence behind Hyde Park; and Mr. Prohack jumped out; and Carthew came after him with two bags.  The house was as dark as the owner’s soul; not a gleam of light in any window.  Mr. Prohack produced his familiar latch-key, scraped round the edge of the key-hole, savagely pushed in the key, and opened the door.  There was still no light nor sign of life.  Mr. Prohack paused on the threshold, and then his hand instinctively sought the electric switch and pulled it down.  No responsive gleam!

“Machin!” called Mr. Prohack, as it were plaintively.

No sound.

“I am a fool,” thought Mr. Prohack.

He struck a match and walked forward delicately, peering.  He descried an empty portmanteau lying on the stairs.  He shoved against the dining-room door, which was ajar, and lit another match, and started back.  The dining-room was full of ghosts, furniture sheeted in dust-sheets; and a newspaper had been made into a cap over his favourite Chippendale clock.  He retreated.

“Put those bags into the car again,” he said to Carthew, who stood hesitant on the vague whiteness of the front-step.

How much did Carthew know?  Mr. Prohack was too proud to ask.  Carthew was no longer an authority on women lunching with an equal; he was a servitor engaged and paid on the clear understanding that he should not speak until spoken to.

“Drive to Claridge’s Hotel,” said Mr. Prohack.

“Yes, sir.”

At the entrance to the hotel the party was received by gigantic uniformed guards with all the respect due to an Eagle.  Ignoring the guards, Mr. Prohack passed imperially within to the reception office.

“I want a bedroom, a sitting-room and a bath-room, please.”

“A private suite, sir?”

“A private suite.”

“What—­er—­kind, sir?  We have—­”

“The best,” said Mr. Prohack, with finality.  He signed his name and received a ticket.

“Please have my luggage taken out of the car, and tell my chauffeur I shall want him at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and that he should take the car to the hotel-garage, wherever it is, and sleep here.  I will have some tea at once in my sitting-room.”

The hotel-staff, like all hotel-staffs, loved a customer who knew his mind with precision and could speak it.  Mr. Prohack was admirably served.