saturnine countenance wearing a more cynical grin than ever, Parslewe.
He greeted us as coolly and unconcernedly as if we were in his own parlour at Kelpieshaw and had just come down to breakfast; indeed, he scarcely did more than give us a careless good morning, his chief concern just then seemed to be to catch the porter's attention before he closed the door on us.
"Hi, you!" he called. "Just tell that waiter to bring up lunch, will you?—there's a good fellow! Well," he went on, regarding us speculatively as the man went off. "I suppose you're hungry, eh?"
"Very!" said I.
"Famishing!" declared Madrasia.
He inspected her critically, rubbed his chin, and pointed to a side table.
"Take your things off and throw 'em on there, my dear," he said. "You can take 'em to your own room afterwards."
Madrasia, in the act of divesting herself, turned on him.
"Room?" she exclaimed.
"Number 186, yours," he answered, calmly. "Yours, Craye, is 95—next mine. Don't for-
