In due course we drew up before a second-rate apartment hotel that was sadly in need of a coat of paint. We entered a dingy hall and inquired for Orton.
"Suite Four, third door to your left," droned the switchboard girl.
We walked down the hall, which would have been decidedly improved by an application of a mop and some soap and water, and knocked at Orton's apartment. As we waited we heard the sound of a door closing, and then the shuffle of feet and presently the door opened a crack and Orton's near-sighted eyes peered at us from the aperture.
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently.
"A moment's conversation," replied McKelvie, but at that minute Orton recognized me and, swiftly retreating, began to close the door.
McKelvie, however, was prepared for him and the closing door met an obstruction in the shape of the toe of McKelvie's boot.
"There is no use trying to keep me out," he continued sternly, "unless of course you would like to tell your story to the police."
At mention of the police Orton retreated still farther, and we followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind us. We found ourselves in a stuffy, gloomy little parlor filled with a lot of ugly, old-fashioned furniture. Orton, who was clad in dressing-gown and slippers, ungraciously asked us to be seated, but before we could state our errand a quavering voice from somewhere in the rear reached us.
"What is it, Claude? Who is in there with you?" it said.
"You have frightened my mother," said Orton, plucking at the cord of his wrapper, as if undecided whether to go or stay.