THE AFFAIR AT THE SEMIRAMIS HOTEL
pected the untidy litter of a man run to seed, the neglect and the dust of the recluse. But the room was as clean as the deck of a yacht; an Aubusson carpet made the floor luxurious underfoot; a few coloured prints of real value decorated the walls; and the mahogany furniture was polished so that a lady could have used it as a mirror. There was even by the newspapers upon the round table a china bowl full of fresh red roses. If Calladine had turned hermit, he was a hermit of an unusually fastidious type. Indeed, as he stood with his two companions in his dishevelled dress he seemed quite out of keeping with his rooms.
"So you live here, Mr. Calladine?" said Hanaud, taking off his hat and laying it down.
"Yes."
"With your servants, of course?"
"They come in during the day," said Calladine, and Hanaud looked at him curiously.
"Do you mean that you sleep here alone?"
"Yes."
"But your valet?"
"I don't keep a valet," said Calladine; and again the curious look came into Hanaud's eyes.
"Yet," he suggested gently, "there are rooms enough in your set of chambers to house a family."
Calladine coloured and shifted uncomfortably from one foto to the other.
"I prefer at night not to be disturbed," he said,
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