The register lay open between them; the clerk's finger, running along the column, rested about half-way down.
The manager bent over the page.
"'Roger J. Ransom and wife,'" he read out in decided astonishment. "Why, they are—"
"You're right. Married to-day in Grace Church. A great wedding; the papers are full of it. Well, she's the lady. They registered here a few minutes before five o'clock and in ten minutes the bride was missing. It's a queer story Mr. Ransom tells. You'd better hear it. Ah, there's our man! Perhaps you'll go up with him."
"You may bet your last dollar on that," muttered the manager. And joining the new-comer, he made a significant gesture which was all that passed between them till they stepped out on the second floor.
"Wanted in Room 81?" the manager now asked.
"Yes, by a man named Ransom."
"Just so. That's the door. Knock—or, rather, I'll knock, for I must hear his story as soon as you do. The reputation of the hotel—"
"Yes, yes, but the gentleman's waiting. Ah! that's better."
The manager had just knocked.