He had already selected the hotel, a small one where the rate was very moderate, and as there was no carriage representing it at the train he set out to walk. It was a small, plain-looking inn, of perhaps thirty rooms, named after the proprietor:
THE LYNCH HOUSE.
On the road thither he was overtaken by a stranger, whom he remembered as one of the passengers on the second car. He appeared to be about forty years of age, and though it was a warm summer evening he was muffled up about the neck.
"Are you going to stop here over night?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You are the train boy, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"What hotel shall you put up at?"
"One recommended to me by the conductor—the Lynch House."
"I think I will stop there too."