"Must 'ave forgot 'is dressin'-gown," remarked Bindle, as the cleric disappeared round a corner in the direction of the bath-room furthest from his own room, to which he had been directed.
"'E must get over that nervousness of 'is," was Bindle's excuse to himself, as he returned to his room.
He was just wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve after draining the last drop of beer, when he heard a suppressed scream from the corridor. He opened the door suddenly, and was startled to find himself confronted by a woman of uncertain age in an elaborate rose-pink négligé and mob cap—beneath which was to be seen a head suspiciously well-coiffed for that hour of the morning.
"Oh! Oh!! Oh!!!" she gasped, as she entered the room, obviously labouring under some great emotion.
"Anythink I can do, miss?" enquired Bindle respectfully, marvelling at the make-up that lay thick upon her withered cheeks.
"Looks like an apple wot they've forgot to pluck," he commented inwardly. "Anythink I can do, miss?"
"There's—there's a—a m-m man in my room," she gasped.
"A wot, miss?" enquired Bindle in shocked surprise.
"A m-m-man."
