She gulped convulsively: "You don't understand—"
"Probably I don't," he conceded. "Still, things may look very much otherwise in the morning. They generally do, I notice. One goes to bed with reluctance and wakes up with a headache. All that sort of thing.... But if you'll listen to me a moment—why, then if you want to go, I shan't detain you.... My name is John Matthias. My trade is writing things—plays, mostly: I know it sounds foolish, but then I hate exercise. I live—sleep, that is—ah—elsewhere—down the street. This is merely my work-room. So your stopping here won't inconvenience me in the least...."
He snatched up a mass of papers from the table, folded them hastily and thrust them into a coat pocket.
"That manuscript I was after. Good night. I do hope you'll be comfortable."
Before the amazed girl could collect herself, he had his hat and handbag and was already in the hallway.
She ran after him.
"But, Mr. Matthias—"
He glanced hastily over his shoulder while fumbling with the night-latch.
"I can't let you—"
"Oh, but you must—really, you know."