Although the newcomer confessed that he had not made any reservation of
rooms, the Archduke graciously permitted him to alight--indeed, quelled
an incipient rebellion on Curtis's part by ordering a couple of negroes
to disappear with most of the baggage. So Curtis announced meekly to a
super-clerk that he wanted a room with a bathroom, and was allowed to
register. As in a dream, he signed "John D. Curtis, Pekin," and was
promptly annoyed at finding what he had written, because, being a
citizen of New York, he had meant to claim the distinction, and ignore
his long years in Cathay.
"You'll find 605 a comfortable, quiet room, Mr. Curtis," said the
clerk. "Going to make a long stay, may I ask?"
"A few days--perhaps a fortnight. I cannot say offhand."
"Well, sir, I can't fix you better than in 605."
From some points of view, the clerk had never uttered a truer word. It
was wholly impossible that he or Curtis should guess how an apparently
empty and really excellent apartment in the Central Hotel should be
full to the ceiling that evening with that dynamite in human affairs
called chance. If the slightest inkling of the forthcoming explosion
could have been vouchsafed to both men, there is no telling what Curtis
might have done, for he was a true adventurer, of the D'Artagnan genus,
but the clerk would certainly have used all his persuasiveness to
induce the guest to occupy some other part of the house.
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