Officer McWatters measures a man at a glance. He sees the latent roguery peering out of the corner of the eyes, lurking in the smile, hiding itself in the cultivated mustache and careful whiskers, strongly and unconsciously developing even in the gorgeous watch-chain, flashy vest, showy cravat, elaborately-checked pants, and brilliantly shining patents, or, vice versa, suit of puritanical plainness. His penetrative optics permeated, yesterday afternoon, the disguise of that most notable and audacious of non-paying hotel diners, Jack Vinton. Jack had taken dinner at the Metropolitan Hotel. His brassy impudence had enabled him to pass muster, as a guest of the hotel, the Cerberus at the dining-room door. Not to betray a dangerous haste in leaving, he sank back leisurely into a soft-cushioned chair in the gentlemen's parlor, and read a newspaper for a while. He was going out of the hall door, when Officer McWatters spotted him.
"Are you stopping at this hotel?" asked the officer (who, by the way, was in citizen's dress), in that tone of politeness, for which he is remarkable.
"I am, sir."
"How long have you been stopping here?"
"Ever since I came here."
"Is your name registered?"
"Registered? I never heard of such a name. Mine begins with an initial letter of higher alphabetical rank."
"You misunderstand me. Is your name on the hotel books?"
"The bookkeeper is the proper informant."
"Have you a suit of rooms here?"