"I wanted to get back to my room," interposed Mathison, taking pity on the clerk's bewilderment. "There's been a misunderstanding all round. Keep the change and buy yourself some cigars with it."
As Mathison and the detective disappeared through the revolving doors the clerk turned to the cashier. "Keep your eye on things for a while. I'm going out and root up a drink. I might understand something of this if I was full of hootch."
When Mathison and the detective entered the car George the porter was moving about sleepily. "What's de mattah wid dat hotel?" he demanded, reproachfully.
"Too much excelsior, George, and not enough feathers."
"Well, I had de bed made up, case yo' did come back.... Lan' sakes, what's happened t' dem satchels?"
"The chef ran amuck with the cleaver," explained Murphy, owlishly. He turned to Mathison. "Here's that cannon of yours. Take care of yourself. Gee! if you were a crook and I was chasing you, what a lot of fun we'd have!"
"Thanks for the compliment. Truthfully, I had expected to spend the night in jail."
The porter's ears twitched.
The two men shook hands, and Mathison vanished behind the door of his compartment. George eyed the door speculatively. Jail. He tiptoed to No. 2 and knocked.
"What is it?" came through the crack.