Mr. Hyde sat back upon his heels and grinned engagingly. "Not much," he confessed. "Can't find it nowhere. This guy must be a missionary."
The new-comer opened the door and entered. He was a medium-sized, plump young man. "Oh, I say!" he protested. "Is it as bad as that?" Bill nodded vaguely, meanwhile carefully measuring the physical proportions of the interloper. The latter went on:
"I saw that you knew your business, and—I was hoping you'd manage to find something I had missed."
Mr. Hyde breathed deep with relief; his expression altered. "You been through ahead of me?" he inquired.
"Oh, several times; daily, in fact." The speaker tossed a bunch of keys upon the berth, saying: "Glance through the steamer-trunk while you're here and declare me in on anything-you find."
Mr. Hyde rose to his feet and retreated a step; his look of relief was replaced by one of dark suspicion. As always, in moments of extremity, he began to laugh.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I? Why, I live here. That's my baggage. I've been through it, as I told you, but—" The young man frowned whimsically and lit a cigarette. "It doesn't diagnose. I can't find a solitary symptom of anything worth while. Sit down, won't you?"
Mr. Hyde's manner changed for a second time. He was embarrassed, apologetic, crestfallen. "Your cabin? Why, then—it's my mistake!" he declared. "I must 'a' got in the wrong flat. Mac sent me up for a deck of cards, but—Say, that's funny, ain't it?"
He began to see the joke upon himself, and the youth echoed his laughter.