“Suit yourself about it,” he yielded. “I don’t want lodging, anyhow.”
The landlord came staggering in with an armload of cheap bed-covers and threw them down where his dragoon of a wife directed with imperious gesture.
“Just look at all that money invested and no return!” she lamented.
The battered stranger appealed to the landlord, repeating his question. 144
“None of your business,” the landlord replied crabbedly. “But they’re gone, if that’ll do you any good.”
“Did they leave two grips–a suitcase and a doctor’s instrument-case–with you?” inquired the man.
“They left a pie-anno and a foldin’-bed, and a automobile and a safety-razor!” said the landlord, looking reproachfully at his big wife, who was motioning him out to his labors again.
“Or any word for Dr. Slavens?” the stranger pursued with well-contained patience.
“What do you want to know for?” asked the woman, turning upon him suddenly.
“Because the grips belonged to me, madam; I am Dr. Slavens.”