“The _Merlin_ is not in yet,” said the hotel clerk, in the curt, off-hand manner which the Londoner is beginning to learn from his American fellow-official. “Not in yet!” I gasped. “Why, man, we received a message hours ago at Oxford concerning people on board.” “That is more than we have done.” He made pretence to be exceedingly busy with a ledger; but prolonged ill-usage by ticket examiners, platform inspectors, and the rest of the Jacks in office who seldom know much about their duties, has hardened me. “Are you so overworked that you cannot attend to me, or shall I ask Mr. Schmidt’s assistance?” I demanded. Now here I have given you a most useful tip. Always ascertain the name of the manager of the hotel. The prompt, familiar reference to the august “Schmidt”--whom I did not know--warned the clerk that here might be some person of importance, worthy to be on terms of intimacy with the great gun of the Pall Mall Hotel. He groveled, closing the ledger carefully lest the bang should annoy me further. “I beg your pardon, sir. I hope you did not misunderstand me,” he said, smiling--oh, how I hate that false smirk--“the _Merlin_ was signaled from Queenstown yesterday, but she has not reached Liverpool. We place a notice in the vestibule the moment we have any news, and the telegram itself states--what time--the special--Excuse me, sir, but your friend--” Karl was standing by my side during the brief colloquy with the clerk. I saw the pert Londoner’s eyes droop. His lips parted and whitened, his voice faltered, his demeanor was that of Richard III on the eve of the battle of Bosworth Field. I half expected to hear him yelp: My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. I gazed anxiously at my companion, and became partly aware of what had happened. Karl had magnetized the clerk! In another instant the dapper little man would be crawling over the counter, looking up with uncomprehending terror at the Jove-like being who bent those lightning shafts on him. I caught Karl by the arm. Instantly the concentrated energy which had shrunk the pupils of his eyes to pin-points relaxed, the relieved motor and sensory nerves returned to their ordinary functions, and he looked benignantly at the quivering clerk, whom he had not seen at all during the transient oblivion of his surroundings. “It is all right,” he said, turning towards me. “A railway porter has just told Maggie that the train will leave the landing-stage station in twenty minutes. In fact, at this moment she is talking to Steindal’s representative, a man named Bocci. And, do you know, from what she said I imagine--” I caught the clerk listening now with a rabbit-eared amazement that nearly equaled his previous alarm. I was sorry for him. He must be in a state of agitation somewhat akin to the flutterings of a sparrow rescued from the deadly fascination of a snake.