Too much concerned with matters pertaining to himself to notice that he was under observation, this man suddenly strode across the lobby to the cigar counter. He purchased a handful of perfectos, and made off in the direction of the smoking room.
There, ensconced in a corner, he lighted a cigar and stared steadily at the mural decorations. So preoccupied was he that he did not notice the arrival of another person — the man who had been watching him in the lobby.
"Have you a match?"
The simple question made the gawkish man start. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a pack of paper matches. He gave them to the one who had asked for them.
"Thank you, Mr. Powell."
The man raised his stooped shoulders. A hunted expression came over his face. His eyes gleamed with suspicion. He stared at the speaker, who returned his gaze with a frank and friendly air.
"My name isn't Powell," the man declared in a low, tense voice.
"Not on the hotel register," was the young man's reply. "There you have written your name as Wallace Weldon. The first name is correct; the last is not. You should have listed yourself as Wallace Powell, unless — "
"Unless what?" the tall man interrupted.
"— unless you prefer not to be known in Baltimore," the other finished. Powell sank back in his chair and stared toward the ceiling; but his mind was still on what the stranger had said.