cally, "we were all very sorry indeed that you should be ill."
"I shan't do it again," said Beresford confidently. "I had pneumonia some time back, and the doctor told me to take care, and—and—well, I had rather a strenuous day yesterday."
"If you would like your meals served in your room" began the manager.
"No, thanks, I'm all right now," and with that the manager took his bowing departure, leaving Beresford greatly impressed by the courteous methods adopted by the management of the Imperial.
With swift decisive strokes he shaved, all the time the razor seeming to keep time to the unending question, "Has she gone?" He prayed that he might not cut himself. He preferred to meet her unadorned by sticking-plaster.
He was engaged in brushing his hair when a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he cried.
A moment after a waiter entered with a breakfast-tray. Beresford stared at him.
"I didn't order breakfast in my room," he said.
The man looked at him surprised.
"No, sir?" he interrogated. "I was instructed to bring it up."
"By whom?"
"By Mr. Byles, sir, the maître d'hôtel."
"I didn't order it," said Beresford. "Anyhow, it's rather a good idea," he added, conscious that he was feeling very hungry; he had eaten nothing since
