‘Give me two bedrooms and a parlour, please,’ he commanded.

‘First floor?’ asked Nina prettily.

‘First floor!  Well—­I should say! And on the Strand, my dear.’

She bent over her ledgers, blushing.

’Send someone to the ’phone, Tom, and let ’em put me on to the Regency, will you?’ said the stranger.

‘Yes, sir.  Samuels, go and ring up the Regency Theatre—­quick!’

Swift departure of a lord.

‘And ask Alphonse to come up to my bedroom in ten minutes from now,’ the stranger proceeded to Tom.  ’I shall want a dandy supper for fourteen at a quarter after eleven.’

‘Yes, sir.  No dinner, sir?’

‘No; we dined on the Pullman.  Well, my dear, figured it out yet?’

‘Numbers 102, 120, and 107,’ said Nina.

‘Keys 102, 120, and 107,’ said Tom.

Swift departure of another lord to the pagoda.

‘How much?’ demanded the stranger.

’The bedrooms are twenty-five shillings, and the sitting-room two guineas.’

’I guess Mr. Pank won’t mind that.  Hullo, Pank, you’re here!  I’m through.  Your number’s 102 or 120, which you fancy.  Just going to the ‘phone a minute, and then I’ll join you upstairs.’

Mr. Pank was a younger man, possessing a thin, astute, intellectual face.  He walked into the hall with noticeable deliberation.  His travelling costume was faultless, but from beneath his straw hat his black hair sprouted in a somewhat peculiar fashion over his broad forehead.  He smiled lazily and shrewdly, and without a word disappeared into a lift.  Two large portmanteaus accompanied him.

Presently the elder stranger could be heard battling with the obstinate idiosyncrasies of a London telephone.

‘You haven’t registered,’ Nina called to him in her tremulous, delicate, captivating voice, as he came out of the telephone-box.

He advanced to sign, and, taking a pen and leaning on the front of the bureau, wrote in the visitor’s book, in a careful, legible hand:  ’Lionel Belmont, New York.’  Having thus written, and still resting on the right elbow, he raised his right hand a little and waved the pen like a delicious menace at Nina.

‘Mr. Pank hasn’t registered, either,’ he said slowly, with a charming affectation of solemnity, as though accusing Mr. Pank of some appalling crime.

Nina laughed timidly as she pushed his room-ticket across the page of the big book.  She thought that Mr. Lionel Belmont was perfectly delightful.

‘No,’ he hasn’t,’ she said, trying also to be arch; ‘but he must.’

At that moment she happened to glance at the right hand of Mr. Belmont.  In the brilliance of the electric light she could see the fair skin of the wrist and forearm within the whiteness of his shirt-sleeve.  She stared at what she saw, every muscle tense.

‘I guess you can round up Mr. Pank yourself, my dear, later on,’ said Lionel Belmont, and turned quickly away, intent on the next thing.