“I’m going out,” I said shortly. “Number Three bed in Room Six.”
“For long, sir?” he stammered. “You’ll be back, or are you leaving?”
“I’m leaving. You’ll find I’m paid up.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He rallied to the problem. “Just a moment. Number Three, Room Six, you say. Pulling your freight, are you?” He 144 scanned the register. “You’re the gentleman from New York who came in yesterday and met with misfortune?”
“I am,” said I.
“Well, better luck next time. We’ll see you again?” He quickened. “Here! One moment. Think I have a message for you.” And reaching behind him into a pigeonhole he extracted an envelope, which he passed to me. “Yours, sir?” I stared at the fine slanting script of the address:
| Please deliver to Frank R. Beeson, Esqr., At the Queen Hotel. Arrived from Albany, N. Y. |