Kennedy trod hard on my toes.
"Yes, forty-nine," he repeated.
The proprietor called a stout negro porter, waiter, and bell-hop all combined in one, who led us upstairs.
"Fohty-nine, sah," he pointed out, as Kennedy dropped a dime into his ready palm.
The negro left us and as Craig started to enter, I objected, "But,
Craig, it was fifty-nine, not forty-nine. This is the wrong room."
"I know it," he replied. "I had it written in the book. But I want forty-nine—now. Just follow me, Walter."
Nervously I followed him into the room.
"Don't you understand?" he went on. "Room forty-nine is probably just the same as fifty-nine, except perhaps the pictures and furniture, only it is on the floor below."
He gazed about keenly. Then he took a few steps to the window and threw it open. As he stood there he took the parts of the rods he had been carrying and fitted them together until he had a pole some eight or ten feet long. At one end was a curious arrangement that seemed to contain lenses and a mirror. At the other end was an eye-piece, as nearly as I could make out.
"What is that?" I asked as he completed his work.