Gregor would have a meal ready; and it struck Hawksley forcibly that he
was hungry, that he had not touched food since the night before. Gregor,
valeting in a hotel, pressing coats and trousers and sewing on buttons!
Groggy old world, wasn't it? Gregor, pressing the trousers of the
hoi polloi! Gregor, who could have sent New York mad with that old
Stradivarius of his! But Gregor was wise. Safety for him lay in
obscurity; and what was more obscure than a hotel valet?
He did not seek the elevator but mounted the first flight of stairs. He
saw two doors, one on each side of the landing. He sought one, stooped
and peered at the card over the bell. Conover. Gregor's was opposite.
Having a key he did not knock but unlocked the door and stepped into the
dark hall.
"Stefani Gregor?" he called, joyously. "Stefani, my old friend, it is
I!"
Silence. But that was understandable. Either Gregor had not returned
from his labours or he was out gathering the essentials for the evening
meal. Judging from the variety of odours that swam the halls of this
human warren many suppers were in the process of making, and the top
flavour was garlic. He sniffed pleasurably. Not that the smell of garlic
quickened his hunger. It merely sent his thought galloping backward
a score of years. He saw Stefani Gregor and a small boy in mountain
costume footing it sturdily along the dizzy goat paths of the rugged
hills; saw the two sitting on some ruddy promontory and munching black
bread rubbed with garlic. Ambrosia! His mother's horror, when she smelt
his breath--as if garlic had not been one of her birthrights! His uncle,
roaring out in his bull's voice that black bread and garlic were good
for little boys' stomachs, and made the stuff of soldiers. Black bread
and garlic and the Golden Age!
After he had flooded the hall with light he began a tour of inspection.
The rooms were rather bare but clean and orderly. Here and there were
items that kept the homeland green in the recollection. He came to the
bedroom last. He hesitated for a moment before opening the door. The
lights told him why Gregor had not greeted his entering hail.
The overturned reading lamp, the broken chair, the letters and papers
strewn about the floor, the rifled bureau drawers--these things spoke
plainly enough. Gregor was a prisoner somewhere in this vast city; or he
was dead.
Hawksley stood motionless for a space. And he must remain here at least
for a night and a day! He would not dare risk another hotel. He could,
of course, go to the splendid Rathbone place; but it would not be fair
to invite tragedy across that threshold.