The Firefly of France | Page 6

guardian, I pushed my chair back and crossed the
room. But at the door I found my path barred by the /maitre d'hotel/,
who, at the sight of my progress, had sprung forward, like an arrow
from a bow.
"Excuse me, sir. You're not leaving, are you?" The man was actually
breathing hard. Deferential as his bearing was, I saw no cause for the
inquiry, and with some amusement and more annoyance, I wondered if
he suspected me of slipping out to evade my bill.
"No," I said, staring him up and down; "I'm not!" I passed down the
hall to the entrance of the telephone booths. Glancing back, I could see
him still standing there gazing after me; his face, I thought, wore a
relieved expression as he saw whither I was bound.
The queer incident left my mind as I secluded myself, got my
connection, and heard across the wire the indignant accents of Dick

Forrest, my former college chum. Upon leaving his yacht that morning,
I had promised him a certain power of attorney--Dick is a lawyer and is
called a good one, though I can never quite credit it--and he now
demanded in unjudicial heat why it had not been sent round.
"Good heavens, man," I cut in remorsefully, "I forgot it! The thing is in
my room now. Where are you? That's all right. You'll have it by
messenger within ten minutes." Hastily rehooking the receiver, I bolted
from my booth.
In the restaurant door against a background of paneled walls the /maitre
d'hotel/ still stood, as if watching for my return. I sprang into an
elevator just about to start its ascent, and saw his mouth fall open and
his feet bring him several quick steps forward.
"The man is crazy," I told myself with conviction as I shot up four
stories in as many seconds and was deposited in my hall.
There was no one at the desk where the floor clerk usually kept vigil,
gossiping affably with such employees as passed. The place seemed
deserted; no doubt all the guests were downstairs. Treading lightly on
the thick carpet, I went down the hall to Room four hundred and three,
and found the door ajar and a light visible inside.
My bed, I supposed, was being turned down. I swung the door open,
and halted in my tracks. With his back to me, bent over a wide-open
trunk that I had left locked, was a man.
Stepping inside, I closed the door quietly, meanwhile scrutinizing my
unconscious visitor from head to foot. He wore no hotel insignia--was
neither porter, waiter, nor valet.
"Well, how about it? Anything there suit you?" I inquired affably, with
my back against the door.
Exclaiming gutturally, he whisked about and faced me where I stood
quite prepared for a rough-and-tumble. Instead of a typical
housebreaker of fiction, I saw a pale, rabbit-like, decent-appearing little

soul. He was neatly dressed; he seemed unarmed save for a great ring
of assorted keys; and his manner was as propitiatory and mild- eyed as
that of any mouse. There must be some mistake. He was some sober
mechanic, not a robber. But on the other hand, he looked ready to faint
with fright.
"/Mein Gott/!" he murmured in a sort of fishlike gasp.
This illuminating remark was my first clue.
"Ah! /Mein Herr/ is German?" I inquired, not stirring from my place.
The demand wrought an instant change in him--he drew himself up,
perhaps to five feet five.
"Vat you got against the Germans?" he asked me, almost with menace.
It was the voice of a fanatic intoning "Die Wacht am Rhein"--of a
zealot speaking for the whole embattled /Vaterland/.
The situation was becoming farcical.
"Nothing in the world, I assure you," I replied. "They are a simple,
kindly people. They are musical. They have given the world Schiller,
Goethe, the famous /Kultur/, and a new conception of the possibilities
of war. But I think they should have kept out of Belgium, and I feel the
same way about my room--and don't you try to pull a pistol or I may
feel more strongly still."
"I ain't got no pistol, /nein/," declared my visitor, sulkily. His
resentment had already left him; he had shrunk back to five feet three.
"Well, I have, but I'll worry along without it," I remarked, with a glance
at the nearest bag. As targets, I don't regard my fellow- creatures with
great enthusiasm and, moreover, I could easily have made two of this
mousy champion of a warlike race. Illogically, I was feeling that to
bully him was sheer brutality. Besides this, my dinner was not being
improved by the delay.

"Look here," I said amiably, "I can't see that you've taken anything.
Speak up lively now; I'll give you