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Updated: June 19, 2025
The room was empty; the two men had gone. "But can't we do anything?" asked Bob. "What can we do, sir? If you were mistaken, then no harm is done. If you were not, they must have seen you leave the room, and then made their way out. I'll speak to the hall-porter. There are very few people here to-night, and he will know how many people have gone out during the last five minutes."
But, as it chanced, when he went along to the Universities that evening, he found he had missed his man by only a minute or two. He was surprised and troubled; he knew how Lionel would fret. The hall-porter did not know whither Lord Rockminster had gone; that is to say, he almost certainly did know, but it was not his business to tell.
He would also have been astonished if he had known that a detective in plain clothes dined every evening at the Shades, near to the table occupied by Mr Durfy and his friends; that the hall-porter of Weaver's Hotel was a representative of the police in disguise, and that representatives of the police had called on business at the Rocket office, had brushed up against Blandford at street- corners, and had even taken the trouble to follow him Samuel Shuckleford here and there in his evening's perambulations.
It was solid, and very old a tall-boy with a drawer that, opening out, made a writing-desk; a bureau with a latticed glass front; three chairs of the Chippendale farmhouse order; and one vast chair, covered with leather and adorned with nails, that had probably been dozed in by the hall-porter of some great mansion more than a century ago.
Later, as he sat alone in a far corner of the ball-room, he twisted the dagger of love this way and that in his tormented heart, whilst the dogs of Billi worried the life out of the hall-porter as they fretted and moaned for their master who tarried.
He sliced off the head of the Chancellor of the Exchequer with his stick. Near Whitehall he saw the advertisement of a firm of shop-specialists: "BRING YOUR BUSINESS TROUBLES TO US." "WELL, Milton, had a good holiday?" said Mr. Prohack to the hall-porter on entering his chief club for lunch that day. "No, sir," said the hall-porter, who was a realist. "Ah, well," said Mr. Prohack soothingly.
Coulson was obviously a man of common sense. His words were clearly pronounced, and his reasoning sound. They had reached the courtyard of the hotel now, and the reporter began to express his gratitude. "My first drink on English soil," Mr. Coulson said, as he handed his suitcase to the hall-porter, "is always " "It's on me," the young man declared quickly.
He wanted a strong, sure-footed horse, one of those marvellous animals, found only in the streets of London, which trots like a dog, slides down Savoy Street on its hind legs, slips in and out among the traffic like an eel, and covers a steady eight miles an hour for a seemingly indefinite period. "Shall I whistle for a cab, sir?" said the hall-porter. "No.
One fancies the hall-porter conscious of the old lord's iniquity, and holding down his head as the Marshal passes the door. What is that roll which his lordship carries? Is it his Marshal's baton gloriously won? No; it is a roll of foolscap conveyed from the Club. What has he on his breast, under his greatcoat? Is it his Star of India?
A spectre is ridiculous; "ashes," that's the style! Are not the "ashes" of Napoleon still spoken of? Is not the translation of the coffin from St. Helena to the Invalides alluded to as "the return of the ashes"? As to the witches of Macbeth, they were rigorously barred. The hall-porter of the Theatre-Francais had his orders. They would have been received with their own brooms.
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