been served in the way I had been. The mistress of the hotel appeased us by saying that the matter should have full inquiry in the morning, and eventually we retired to rest again. You must admit, young man, you were a very sound sleeper, not to have been awakened by these proceedings.”
I was considerably astonished at this recital. This, then, accounted for the excitement in the hotel whilst I was ringing at the door.
“And what was the explanation of this extraordinary affair?” I inquired.
“The explanation,” continued Mr. Bamby, “as far as I have heard it, is more mysterious to me than the affair itself. The landlady in answer to my inquiries this morning, informed me it was the F. D., and everybody I have asked has answered me in the same way; but who the F. D. is, or what the F. D. is, or why the deuce the F. D. pulled everybody out of bed, last night, by the leg, is a problem I mean to have unravelled before I leave this place.”
I gave quite a start of astonishment. The head waiter had whispered these mysterious letters into my ear. For a moment a thought flashed through my mind that I might be suspected of being the perpetrator of the outrages described by Mr. Bamby; but then I was not in the hotel at the time they occurred, and no one knew this better than the head-waiter, who had opened the door to me.
“Do you think you should know your aggressor again,” I said, “if you saw him?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Bamby. “It was so dark at the time, and I was so bewildered; but dear me, how very late it is. What a thing it is to have one’s rest disturbed. It loses one’s whole day. I should like to catch my friend the F. D. or the Funny Devil, or whatever he is, I’d show him some fun, although I am a man of weak nerves. Good morning.”
And Mr. Bamby took up his hat and umbrella, and trotted out of the room. As he went out the head-waiter came in. I looked hungrily towards him, but he only carried an empty plate in one hand, and advanced with great solemnity, bearing it before him like a church-warden going round after a charity sermon. He presented it to me. I looked at him, and then at the plate.
“What’s this? Where is the breakfast, fellow? What in the name of heaven is the meaning of all this? What’s that plate for?”
Without a movement of his face he still advanced the plate before me. I really think I was about to take it out of his hand and hurl it through the window, when I caught sight of a paper lying upon it. I took it up and looked at it. It was my bill!
“What’s this?” I demanded fiercely.
“What is that, sir?” said the head-waiter. “That is the bill, sir. We have not charged for breakfast. We have not, I believe, charged for a bed to-night; but the attendance is included.”
“I will see the proprietor at once,” I cried, “and have this affair explained. A pretty hotel this seems to be. I am kept waiting half the night ringing at the bell. Breakfast is refused me, and my bill is thrust upon me without my asking for it. Who do you take me for? Eh?”
I advanced upon the head-waiter; he retreated in terror.
“Don’t, sir, don’t. I am a family man, and not a bad sort: but hotels is hotels, sir, and can’t afford to be ruined. Whole families turning out—families from the Philippine Islands—two Nabobs, and one a general—ain’t they nothing? Then, to see the deluges—the breakages—the spiled linen—oh! to see it—”
It was clear I was taken for the author of the last night’s proceedings—the mysterious F. D. referred to by Mr. Bamby. I heard no more. I rushed out of the room, intending at once to have an interview with the proprietor of the hotel, and explain matters. In the hall there were groups of servants, all talking anxiously. As I made my appearance there was a general movement of excitement amongst them; all eyes were directed towards me, and I again heard the mention of the mysterious letters in an under tone, clearly in reference to myself.
“Can I see the proprietor?” I addressed a young woman in the bar of the hotel.
“Walk this way,” she answered, in a sharp, snappish tone.
I passed through the bar and into a back room. Here was seated the landlady, with a large book before her. As I entered, and she saw who it was, she started up, took off her spectacles, and confronted me with a glare of terrible indignation.
“So, Number 24,” she said, before I could open my mouth, “I hope you are satisfied with the mischief of which you have been the cause. The affair of last night may be my ruin, and I have to thank you for it. (She pointed to the book.) I am now making out the bill of Number 4; a gentleman suffering from the gout. How can he be expected to remain in a hotel where he is pulled out of bed in the middle of the night, and dragged about his room by the leg? Here is the family in Number 18, who have been in hysterics ever since, and who threaten me with an action for the loss of wigs and teeth and all sorts of valuable property. And here is the Indian General in Number 82, who declares he will have your life, and there will be murder on the premises in the height of the season. It’s shameful of you. It is disgraceful.”
“Madam,” I interrupted, “I assure you I am perfectly innocent of the outrages which I have heard were committed last night in this hotel.”
“How dare you, Number 24,” cried the landlady, “utter such wilful falsehoods? Is it not enough, what you have done? I have perfect confidence in the statement made to me by Mr. Loverock, our head-waiter.”
“If Mr. Loverock,” I urged, “has made a charge against me of being the author of this affair, he is a villain, since he knows that such a charge is false.”
“He is no villain,” said the landlady, now in a towering passion. “He is no villain; and he is not false. He was not at first willing to divulge you; and it was only when I threatened to remove him from his situation that he made the statement he did. He is no villain, Number 24. It is you, and you alone, who are the villain.