his swift career, as if catching my last words. I hear him repeat,
"Missed--er--" and then "Capes." To this he adds, sharply, "Yes, Sir,
I'll tell him," and vanishes.

"_Tell him?_" Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other
Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes. But to make
assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out,
"Wrapper--with two capes--probably in the hall--don't see it here."
To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the
Boots comes up to me, "Capes in the hall," then something inaudible,
finishing with, "up there."

I return to my apartment. Lovely view. Open window. Balmy and
refreshing breeze. Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the
door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am
turning to shut it, when "to me enters" as the old stage-directions
have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached,
white-vested, and generally "in full fig."--(_Mem._--Write to _Notes
and Queries, Unde derivatur_--"Full fig?") who advances briskly but
quietly towards me. My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the
number of his room. At least, I hope the mistake isn't on _my_ part,
or on the urbane Manager's part, in putting me up here. Smart visitor
bows. I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my
room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, "Delighted to meet you;
my name is CAPES. The porter told me you wished to see me. I am sure,
Sir, I am more than delighted to see _you_!" and he proffers his hand,
which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on
earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful
at seeing me again. Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the
mistake is, and how it has arisen. A brilliant flash of memory recalls