The representative of Mr. Jarvis was carried up to the second
floor and the lift man, having indicated at which door he should
knock, descended again. The cobbler's nervousness thereupon
became more marked than ever, so that a waiter, seeing him
looking helplessly from door to door, took pity on him and
inquired for whom he was searching.
"His excellency," was the reply; "but I'm hanged if I can
remember the number or how to pronounce his name."
The waiter glanced at him oddly. "Ormuz Khan," he said, and rang
the bell beside a door. As he hurried away, "Good luck!" he
called back.
There was a short interval, and then the door was opened by a man
who looked like a Hindu. He wore correct morning dress and
through gold-rimmed pince-nez he stared inquiringly at the
caller.
"Is his excellency at home?" asked the latter. "I'm from Mr.
Jarvis, the bootmaker."
"Oh!" said the other, smiling slightly. "Come in. What is your
name?"
"Parker, sir. From Mr. Jarvis."
As the door closed, Parker found himself in a small lobby. Beside
an umbrella rack a high-backed chair was placed. "Sit down," he
was directed. "I will tell his excellency that you are here."
A door was opened and closed again, and Parker found himself
alone. He twirled his bowler hat, which he held in his hand, and
stared about the place vacantly. Once he began to whistle, but
checked himself and coughed nervously.
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