“Oh, yes; a three room suite, sitting-room, boudoir, which I am sure she uses more as a study, a chamber—and private bath.”
Quincy said, “I would prefer to see her in her sitting-room.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Cass. “Our rules are only prohibitive in the case of single chambers or alcove suites, when the caller and tenant are of opposite sexes. The proprietor—he was formerly a clergyman—is tenacious on certain points.”
“And so am I,” was Quincy's response, for his temper was rising, “and you will oblige me by communicating with Miss Dana at once, and informing her of my desire to see her.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Cass, “but my employer, who, as I have said, was formerly a clergyman, is tenacious on another point; all tenants who receive visitors in their rooms must have their names entered in a book prescribed for the purpose, and also the names of their callers.”
Quincy's murderous instinct was again aroused, but Mr. Cass was unmindful of his danger and made the required entry. The humourous side of the affair then struck Quincy, and taking a memorandum book from his pocket, he said:
“I, too, am tenacious on one point. I never visit a hotel for the first time without writing down the name of the clerk. Will you oblige me?”
“Oh, certainly. Cass, Mr. Lorenzo Cass.”
“Do you spell it with a 'C'?” asked Quincy, innocently, as he pretended to write.
“Oh, certainly. C-a-s-s-.”