face, I thought, wore a relieved expression as he saw whither I was bound.     

       The queer incident left my mind as I secluded myself, got my connection, and heard across the wire the indignant accents of Dick Forrest, my former college chum. Upon leaving his yacht that morning, I had promised him a certain power of attorney—Dick is a lawyer and is called a good one, though I can never quite credit it—and he now demanded in unjudicial heat why it had not been sent round.     

       “Good heavens, man,” I cut in remorsefully, “I forgot it! The thing is in       my room now. Where are you? That’s all right. You’ll have it by messenger within ten minutes.” Hastily rehooking the receiver, I bolted from my booth.     

       In the restaurant door against a background of paneled walls the maitre d’hotel still stood, as if watching for my return. I sprang into an elevator just about to start its ascent, and saw his mouth fall open and his feet bring him several quick steps forward.     

       “The man is crazy,” I told myself with conviction as I shot up four stories in as many seconds and was deposited in my hall.     

       There was no one at the desk where the floor clerk usually kept vigil, gossiping affably with such employees as passed. The place seemed deserted; no doubt all the guests were downstairs. Treading lightly on the thick carpet, I went down the hall to Room four hundred and three, and found the door ajar and a light visible inside.     

       My bed, I supposed, was being turned down. I swung the door open, and halted in my tracks. With his back to me, bent over a wide-open trunk that I had left locked, was a man.     

       Stepping inside, I closed the door quietly, meanwhile scrutinizing my unconscious visitor from head to foot. He wore no hotel insignia—was neither porter, waiter, nor valet.     

       “Well, how about it? Anything there suit you?” I inquired affably, with my back against the door.     

       Exclaiming gutturally, he whisked about and faced me where I stood quite prepared for a rough-and-tumble. Instead of a typical housebreaker of fiction, I saw a pale, rabbit-like, decent-appearing little soul. He was neatly dressed; he seemed unarmed save for a 

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