fine Cockney accent, is singing "_Oh, dem Golden Slippers!_" Wonder
where _my_ slippers are!

_In my Bedroom._--I have had to come back at last, and get it
over with the Waiter. If he felt _any_ surprise, I think it was
to see me back at all. I have had to ask him if he could get me
some sleeping-things to pass the night in. _And_ a piece of soap.
Humiliating, but unavoidable. He promised, but he has not brought
them. Probably this last request has done for me, and he is now
communicating with the police....

A tap at my door. "Please, de tings!" says the Waiter. I have wronged
him. He has brought me _such_ a nightgown! Never saw anything in the
least like it before. It has flowers embroidered all down the front
and round the cuffs, and on every button something is worked in tiny
blue letters, which, on inspection, turns out to be "Good-night." I
don't quite know why, but, in my present state, I find this strangely
consoling, and even touching--like a benediction. After all, he _must_
believe in me, or he would hardly confide his purple and fine linen to
me like this. Go to bed gorgeous, and dream that my portmanteau, bag,
and self-respect are all restored to me by the afternoon boat....
There must be something in dreams, for, oddly enough, this is exactly
what _does_ happen.

Next morning, at breakfast, I am handed a mysterious and, at first
sight, rather alarming telegram from the Station-master at Dover.
"Your bones will be sent on next boat." Suspect the word in the
original was "_boxes_." But they may call them what they like, so
long as I get them back again.