ride my hobby to my heart's content. It is I who should apologize.'

Racksole rose.

'I should like to ask you one question,' said Babylon. 'Have you ever
had anything to do with hotels before?'

'Never,' said Racksole.

'Then you have missed your vocation. You could have been the greatest
of all hotel-managers. You would have been greater than me, and I am
unequalled, though I keep only one hotel, and some men have half a
dozen. Mr Racksole, why have you never run an hotel?'

'Heaven knows,' he laughed, 'but you flatter me, Mr Babylon.'

'I? Flatter? You do not know me. I flatter no one, except, perhaps,
now and then an exceptionally distinguished guest. In which case I give
suitable instructions as to the bill.'

'Speaking of distinguished guests, I am told that a couple of German
princes are coming here to-morrow.'

'That is so.'

'Does one do anything? Does one receive them formally--stand bowing in
the entrance-hall, or anything of that sort?'

'Not necessarily. Not unless one wishes. The modern hotel proprietor is
not like an innkeeper of the Middle Ages, and even princes do not expect
to see him unless something should happen to go wrong. As a matter
of fact, though the Grand Duke of Posen and Prince Aribert have both
honoured me by staying here before, I have never even set eyes on them.
You will find all arrangements have been made.'

They talked a little longer, and then Racksole said good night. 'Let
me see you to your room. The lifts will be closed and the place will be
deserted.

As for myself, I sleep here,' and Mr Babylon pointed to an inner door.

'No, thanks,' said Racksole; 'let me explore my own hotel unaccompanied.
I believe I can discover my room.' When he got fairly into the passages,
Racksole was not so sure that he could discover his own room. The number
was 107, but he had forgotten whether it was on the first or second
floor.

Travelling in a lift, one is unconscious of floors. He passed several
lift-doorways, but he could see no glint of a staircase; in all
self-respecting hotels staircases have gone out of fashion, and
though hotel architects still continue, for old sakes' sake, to build
staircases, they are tucked away in remote corners where their presence
is not likely to offend the eye of a spoiled and cosmopolitan public.
The hotel seemed vast, uncanny, deserted. An electric light glowed
here and there at long intervals. On the thick carpets, Racksole's
thinly-shod feet