“What’s the trouble?” inquired the guest, who had been conversing with the clerk. He could not help but notice Dave’s perturbation.
“Why,” cried Dave, “I followed a fellow here, to room 47. He is a thief. He robbed me of valuable property two weeks ago. He just slammed the door of his room in my face.”
“A thief?” spoke the clerk, arching his eyebrows. “Are you pretty sure?”
“I should think so,” retorted Dave, “seeing that, rather than meet me, he has made off by the fire escape, baggage and all.”
The hotel clerk blinked in his usual calm way, but touched a bell to summon the hall man from the fourth floor.
“And he stole my name,” cried Dave. “Why?”
“Is that your name?” inquired the clerk, pointing to the register.
“It is,” assented Dave.
“Strange. Let me see, forty-seven—Dashaway,” and the clerk went to a case covered with little cards and selected one. “Oh, yes, has been here twice in a week. Prompt pay. Old gentlemen with him here once, grandfather, I believe. Very respectable old man.”
“See here,” said Dave realizing that he was wasting time, “I don’t want to make you any trouble, but I must report this to the police.”