At eleven o'clock Theodore Racksole, afflicted by vexation of
spirit, found himself gazing idly through the little barred window.
Nella was with him.
Together they had been wandering about the corridors of the hotel,
still strange to them both, and it was quite by accident that they
had lighted upon the small room which had a surreptitious view of
Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi's ball. Except for the light of the
chandelier of the ball-room the little cubicle was in darkness.
Nella was looking through the window; her father stood behind.
'I wonder which is Mrs Sampson Levi?' Nella said, 'and whether
she matches her name. Wouldn't you love to have a name like that,
Father - something that people could take hold of - instead of
Racksole?'
The sound of violins and a confused murmur of voices rose gently
up to them.
'Umphl' said Theodore. 'Curse those evening papers!' he added,
inconsequently but with sincerity.
'Father, you're very horrid to-night. What have the evening papers
been doing?'
'Well, my young madame, they've got me in for one, and you for
another; and they're manufacturing mysteries like fun. It's young
Dimmock's death that has started 'em.'
'Well, Father, you surely didn't expect to keep yourself out of the
papers.
Besides, as regards newspapers, you ought to be glad you aren't in
New York.
Just fancy what the dear old Herald would have made out of a little
transaction like yours of last night'
'That's true,' assented Racksole.
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