He knew that when he got to Paris he would find the registered luggage waiting for him in the consigne, were it six months later.
But the suitcase had apparently been stolen; either that, or it had been placed in safe keeping by some zealous railway official.
In the circumstances that did not seem probable.
He would look for it in the morning; in the meantime they must all get on without pyjamas for the night.
He made his way back to the hotel, and up to the bedroom again.
Both children were sleeping; Sheila was hot and restless and had thrown off most of her coverings.
He spread them over her more lightly, and went down to the restaurant to see if he could get a meal for himself.
A tired waiter refused point-blank to serve him, there was no food left in the hotel.
Howard bought a small bottle of brandy in the cafe, and went up to the bedroom again, to dine off brandy and water, and his length of bread.
Presently he stretched himself to sleep uneasily in the arm-chair, desperately worried over what the next day would bring. One fact consoled him; he had his rods, quite safe.
Dawn came at five and found him still dozing uneasily in the chair, half covered by the dust-cover from the bed.
The children woke soon after that and began chattering and playing in the bed; the old man stirred and sat up stiffly in his chair.
He rubbed a hand over his face; he was feeling very ill.
Then the children claimed his attention and he got up and put them right.
There was no chance of any further sleep; already there was much tramping to and fro in the hotel.
In the station yard outside his window, lorries, tanks, and guns were on the move; the grinding of the caterpillar tracks, the roar of exhausts, the chink of harness and the stamping of the teams made up a melody of war.
He turned back to the children; Sheila was better, but still obviously unwell.
He brought the basin to the bed and washed her face and arms; then he combed her hair with the small pocket comb that he had found in the attache case, one of the few small toilet articles he had.
He took her temperature, under the arm for fear that she might chew on the thermometer.
It came out a degree above normal; he tried vainly to recall how much he should add on for the arm.
In any case, it didn't matter much; she'd have to stay in bed.
He got Ronnie up, washed him, and set him to dress himself; then he sponged over his own face and rang the bell for the femme de chambre.
He was unshaven, but that could wait.
She came presently, and exclaimed when she saw the chair and coverlet:
'Monsieur has slept so?' she said.
'But there was room in bed for all of you!'
He felt a little foolish.
'The little one is ill,' he said.
'When a child is ill, she should have room.
I was quite comfortable.'
Her eyes softened, and she clucked her tongue again.
'Tonight I will find another mattress,' she said.
'Be assured, monsieur, I will arrange something.'
He ordered coffee and rolls and jam; she went away and came back presently with a loaded tray.
As she set it down on the dressing-table, he ventured:
'I must go out this morning to look for my luggage, and to buy a few things.
I will take the little boy with me; I shall not be very long.
Would you listen for the little girl, in case she cries?'
The woman beamed at him.
'Assuredly.
But it will not be necessary for monsieur to hurry.
I will bring la petite Rose, and she can play with the little sick one.'
Howard said: 'Rose?'
He stood for ten minutes, listening to a torrent of family history.
Little Rose was ten years old, the daughter of the woman's brother, who was in England.
No doubt monsieur had met her brother?
Tenois was the name, Henri Tenois.
He was in London, the wine waiter at the Hotel Dickens, in Russell Square.
He was a widower, so the femme de chambre made a home for la petite Rose.
And so on, minute after minute.