"No, Mr. Lane. On some accounts I should prefer to be alone."
"Very well. You need not sit up for me, as I shall return late. Go to bed when you feel inclined, and we shall meet in the morning. So long!"
Scott remained in the office of the hotel. He did not object to being left alone, for he was forced to acknowledge that he did not care much for the company of Crawford Lane.
Circumstances had thrown them together, and Lane had been of some service to him in his absolute ignorance of the city, but Scott resolved to break away from him as soon as possible.
Looking toward the desk, he espied a copy of the New York directory.
That gave him an idea. He would look up the name of Ezra Little, and find out where he lived and what his business was.
Turning over the pages of the bulky volume, he came to the letter L. There was a long list of Littles. Finally, he found Ezra Little, dry goods, No. 849 Eighth Avenue; house, 392 West Forty-seventh Street.
"I will go to see him to-morrow," thought Scott, hopefully. "Since he has a store, he may find a place for me."
Just off the ship, he found that walking about the streets had fatigued him, and he went to bed about nine o'clock.
Lane had requested him to leave the door unlocked, so that he might get in without difficulty on his return from the theater. Indeed, Scott was obliged to do this, as Lane had carried off the key, intentionally or otherwise.