My
misery overwhelmed me; and through my misery shot a swift pang of
remorse at having treated her harshly on that sweet and memorable
afternoon in May.
I turned the corner at Whitehall Place and looked down the
desolate gardens. The benches were empty, the trees were bare,
"and no birds sang." I crossed the road.
The Hotel Metropole. The great doors stood invitingly open, and
from the pavement one could see the warmth and colour of the
vestibule. Here was staying the ArchDevil who had robbed me of
my life. I stood for a moment under the portico shaking with
rage. I must have lost consciousness for a few seconds for I do
not remember entering or mounting the stairs. I found myself at
the bureau asking for Hamdi Effendi. No, he had not left. They
thought he was in the hotel. A page despatched in search of him
departed with my card, bawling a number. I hate these big
caravanserais where one is a mere number, as in a gaol. "Would
to heaven it were a gaol," I muttered to myself, "and this were
the number of Hamdi Effendi!"
A lean man rose from a chair and, holding out his hand,
effusively saluted me by name.
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