As he was registering at The Roosevelt, a young man leaning against the desk covertly noted his entry, John Clayton, London; and as Clayton followed the bell boy toward the elevator, the young man watched him, noting the tall figure, the broad shoulders, and the free, yet cat-like stride.
From the windows of his room Clayton looked down upon Hollywood Boulevard, upon the interminable cars gliding noiselessly east and west. He caught glimpses of tiny trees and little patches of lawn where the encroachment of shops had not obliterated them, and he sighed.
He saw many people riding in cars or walking on the cement sidewalks and the suggestion of innumerable people in the crowded, close built shops and residences; and he felt more alone than he ever had before in all his life.
The confining walls of the hotel room oppressed him; and he took the elevator to the lobby, thinking to go into the hills that he had seen billowing so close, to the north.
In the lobby a young man accosted him. "Aren't you Mr. Clayton?" he asked.
Clayton eyed the stranger closely for a moment before he replied. "Yes, but I do not know you."
"You have probably forgotten, but I met you in London."
Clayton shook his head. "I never forget."
The young man shrugged and smiled. "Pardon me, but nevertheless I recognized you. Here on business?" He was unembarrassed and unabashed.
"Merely to see Hollywood," replied Clayton. "I have heard so much about it that I wished to see it."