After a prolonged period he heard a drawer open, and noted the fact as promising. As the old married man, he presumed that it signified the putting away of hair-pins. About now the dashed woman would be looking at herself in the glass with her hair down. Then she would brush it. Then she would twiddle it up into thingummies. Say, ten minutes for this. And after that she would go to bed and turn out the light, and he would be able, after giving her a bit of time to go to sleep, to creep out and leg it. Allowing at a conservative estimate three-quarters of–
“Come out!”
Archie stiffened. For an instant a feeble hope came to him that this remark, like the others, might be addressed to the dog.
“Come out from under that bed!” said a stern voice. “And mind how you come! I’ve got a pistol!”
“Well, I mean to say, you know,” said Archie, in a propitiatory voice, emerging from his lair like a tortoise and smiling as winningly as a man can who has just bumped his head against the leg of a bed, “I suppose all this seems fairly rummy, but–”
“For the love of Mike!” said Miss Silverton.
The point seemed to Archie well taken and the comment on the situation neatly expressed.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“Well, if it comes to that, you know–shouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t brought the subject up in the course of general chit- chat–what are you doing in mine?”
“Yours?”
“Well, apparently there’s been a bloomer of some species somewhere, but this was the room I had last night,” said Archie.
“But the desk-clerk said that he had asked you if it would be quite satisfactory to you giving it up to me, and you said yes. I come here every summer, when I’m not working, and I always have this room.”
“By Jove! I remember now. The chappie did say something to me about the room, but I was thinking of something else and it rather went over the top. So that’s what he was talking about, was it?”
Miss Silverton was frowning. A moving-picture director, scanning her face, would have perceived that she was registering disappointment.
“Nothing breaks right for me in this darned world,” she said, regretfully. “When I caught sight of your leg sticking out from under the bed, I did think that everything was all lined up for a real find ad. at last. I could close my eyes and see the thing in the papers. On the front page, with photographs: ‘Plucky Actress Captures Burglar.’ Darn it!”
“Fearfully sorry, you know!”
“I just needed something like that. I’ve got a Press-agent, and I will say for him that he eats well and sleeps well and has just enough intelligence to cash his monthly cheque without forgetting what he went into the bank for, but outside of that you can take it from me he’s not one of the world’s workers! He’s about as much solid use to a girl with aspirations as a pain in the lower ribs. It’s three weeks since he got me into print at all, and then the brightest thing he could thing up was that my favourite breakfast- fruit was an apple. Well, I ask you!”
“Rotten!” said Archie.
“I did think that for once my guardian angel had gone back to work and was doing something for me. ‘Stage Star and Midnight Marauder,’ ” murmured Miss Silverton, wistfully. “‘Footlight Favourite Foils Felon.'”
“Bit thick!” agreed Archie, sympathetically. “Well, you’ll probably be wanting to get to bed and all that sort of rot, so I may as well be popping, what! Cheerio!”
A sudden gleam came into Miss Silverton’s compelling eyes.
“Wait!”
“Eh?”
“Wait! I’ve got an idea!” The wistful sadness had gone from her manner. She was bright and alert. “Sit down!”
“Sit down?”
“Sure. Sit down and take the chill off the arm-chair. I’ve thought of something.”
Archie sat down as directed. At his elbow the bulldog eyed him gravely from the basket.
“Do they know you in this hotel?”
“Know me? Well, I’ve been here about a week.”