“Dollar’s the cheapest we’ve got.”
“That will do.”
“Register,” the clerk said, swinging the book around in front of Ned, and handing him a pen which he dipped into the dirty ink bottle. Then he went on with his manicuring.
“I must sign my name,” thought Ned. “No I can’t do that! They might trace me!” He felt the rustle of the stock certificate in his pocket as he took the pen. What was he to do?
“Is it necessary to register?” he asked.
“Course it is,” replied the clerk looking at him curiously. “That’s the law. Everybody who stops at a hotel has to put their name on the book. What’s the matter? You ain’t afraid to register, are you? Don’t look as though you’d committed a murder or had robbed some one,” and the clerk grinned at his joke.
“No, of course not,” Ned replied, his heart thumping away under his overcoat. Then he resolved to put on the book a fictitious name. He hesitated a moment and inscribed: “Thomas Seldon,” in a large hand as unlike as possible from his own usual small writing.
“Thomas Seldon, eh?” queried the clerk as he turned the book around once more. “Where you from? That has to go down.”
Once more Ned hesitated. What should he answer.
“What’s the matter? Forget where you live?” the clerk asked.