Отель «Гранд Вавилон» / The Grand Babylon hotel

�Well, I’m d—d!’ he murmured wonderingly.

The number was 111, his daughter’s room! He tried to open it, but the door was locked. Rushing to his own room, No. 107, he seized one of a pair of revolvers (the kind that are made for millionaires) and followed after Jules down the transverse corridor. At the end of this corridor was a window; the window was open; and Jules was innocently gazing out of the window. Ten silent strides, and Theodore Racksole was upon him.

�One word, my friend,’ the millionaire began, carelessly waving the revolver in the air.

Jules was indubitably startled, but by an admirable exercise of self-control he recovered possession of his faculties in a second.

�Sir?’ said Jules.

�I just want to be informed, what the deuce you were doing in No. 111 a moment ago.’

�I had been requested to go there,’ was the calm response.

�You are a liar, and not a very clever one. That is my daughter’s room. Now—out with it, before I decide whether to shoot you or throw you into the street.

’

�Excuse me, sir, No. 111 is occupied by a gentleman.’

�I advise you that it is a serious error of judgement to contradict me, my friend. Don’t do it again. We will go to the room together, and you shall prove that the occupant is a gentleman, and not my daughter.’

�Impossible, sir,’ said Jules.

�Scarcely that,’ said Racksole, and he took Jules by the sleeve. The millionaire knew for a certainty that Nella occupied No.

111, for he had examined the room with her, and himself seen that her trunks and her maid and herself had arrived there in safety. �Now open the door,’ whispered Racksole, when they reached No.111.

�I must knock.’

�That is just what you mustn’t do. Open it. No doubt you have your pass-key.’

Confronted by the revolver, Jules readily obeyed, yet with a deprecatory gesture, as though he would not be responsible for this outrage against the decorum of hotel life.

Racksole entered. The room was brilliantly lighted.

�A visitor, who insists on seeing you, sir,’ said Jules, and fled.

Mr Reginald Dimmock, still in evening dress, and smoking a cigarette, rose hurriedly from a table.

�Hello, my dear Mr Racksole, this is an unexpected—ah—pleasure.’

�Where is my daughter? This is her room.’

�Did I catch what you said, Mr Racksole?’

�I venture to remark that this is Miss Racksole’s room.