And then his eye, wandering aside, collided with the following objects:  a fluffy pink dressing-gown, hung over the back of a chair, an entirely strange suit-case, and, on the bureau, a photograph in a silver frame of a stout gentleman in evening-dress whom he had never seen before in his life.

Much has been written of the emotions of the wanderer who, returning to his childhood home, finds it altered out of all recognition; but poets have neglected the theme—­far more poignant—­of the man who goes up to his room in an hotel and finds it full of somebody else’s dressing-gowns and bulldogs.

Bulldogs!  Archie’s heart jumped sideways and upwards with a wiggling movement, turning two somersaults, and stopped beating.  The hideous truth, working its way slowly through the concrete, had at last penetrated to his brain.  He was not only in somebody else’s room, and a woman’s at that.  He was in the room belonging to Miss Vera Silverton.

He could not understand it.  He would have been prepared to stake the last cent he could borrow from his father-in-law on the fact that he had made no error in the number over the door.  Yet, nevertheless, such was the case, and, below par though his faculties were at the moment, he was sufficiently alert to perceive that it behoved him to withdraw.

He leaped to the door, and, as he did so, the handle began to turn.

The cloud which had settled on Archie’s mind lifted abruptly.  For an instant he was enabled to think about a hundred times more quickly than was his leisurely wont.  Good fortune had brought him to within easy reach of the electric-light switch.  He snapped it back, and was in darkness.  Then, diving silently and swiftly to the floor, he wriggled under the bed.  The thud of his head against what appeared to be some sort of joist or support, unless it had been placed there by the maker as a practical joke, on the chance of this kind of thing happening some day, coincided with the creak of the opening door.  Then the light was switched on again, and the bulldog in the corner gave a welcoming woofle.

“And how is mamma’s precious angel?”

Rightly concluding that the remark had not been addressed to himself and that no social obligation demanded that he reply, Archie pressed his cheek against the boards and said nothing.  The question was not repeated, but from the other side of the room came the sound of a patted dog.

“Did he think his muzzer had fallen down dead and was never coming up?”

The beautiful picture which these words conjured up filled Archie with that yearning for the might-have-been which is always so painful.  He was finding his position physically as well as mentally distressing.  It was cramped under the bed, and the boards were harder than anything he had ever encountered.  Also, it appeared to be the practice of the housemaids at the Hotel Hermitage to use the space below the beds as a depository for all the dust which they swept off the carpet, and much of this was insinuating itself into his nose and mouth.  The two things which Archie would have liked most to do at that moment were first to kill Miss Silverton—­if possible, painfully—­and then to spend the remainder of his life sneezing.