“Thomas, of course; at least that’s the way you registered, Mr. Smith––Thomas Smith and valet.” The clerk’s eyebrows started straight up his head.
“Thomas Smith, exactly. Now are you satisfied, Mr. House Detective, or do you want to go up and examine my luggage? Having convinced you that I am a registered guest, how would you like to have me walk a chalk line and convince you that I am sober?”
The house detective froze up tighter than ever, pivoted on his heel and walked majestically away.
“What is the trouble, Mr. Smith?” asked the clerk deferentially, for he was a better student of exteriors than John Reagan, twenty years a precinct detective and retired to take up the haughtier rôle of plain-clothes man in this most fastidious of metropolitan hostelries.
“No trouble at all, old chap,” laughed the young man. “I lost my little capri, and then by accident I discovered a stray member of the herd belonging to yonder Ajax. Some day he’s going to turn into solid marble from the dome down, when you will have a most extraordinary piece of statuary on your hands. By the way, have there been any telephone messages for me? I am expecting a very important one.”
“I will see, Mr. Smith,” said the clerk briskly, and began searching through the pigeonholes. “Yes, Mr. Whitney Barnes called up––left word he would call up again at 2 sharp. Will you be in your room, sir?”
“Do you think I’ll be safe in my room?” asked the young man solemnly.
“Safe!” exclaimed the clerk. “Why, what do you mean, sir?”
“Oh, nothing, only Sir Ivory Ajax seems suspicious of me and might take it into his head to come up and see if I hadn’t murdered my valet. That’s all. I’m going to my room now to wait for Mr. Barnes’s telephone call. Kindly be sure that he is connected with my room.”