Arguing with himself in this way, Frank dismounted from the streetcar and began to trudge, head bent against the wind that sliced down Grenoble Street. God knew what had possessed them to choose the hotel, he thought, glancing round in the twilight of the foyer. Who could have recommended such a morgue? There were flakes of snow on his moustache, still unmelted, he noted, as he reached into his breast pocket for a card.
Fully expecting it to be returned with a scribbled note, a polite acknowledgement of his concern, he was taken aback to hear the desk clerk announce ‘Mrs. Kipling’s compliments and would he be kind enough to go up to the suite.’ He gestured towards the brass cage of the elevator: ‘Third floor.’ Before Frank had time to explore the shift in his sense of the occasion, he fou
