“There’s one other room on this floor, farther along,” said the superintendent, “but it isn’t in order. Mr. Perkins’ time isn’t up till day after tomorrow, and his things are there yet. He told the janitor, though, that he was leaving town and wouldn’t bother to take away the things. They aren’t worth much. Here’s the place.”
They entered the office. In it were only a desk, two chairs and a scrap basket. The basket was crammed with newspapers. One of them was the Hotel Register. Average Jones found Telfik Bey’s name, as he had expected, in its roster.
“I’ll give fifty dollars for the furniture as it stands.”
“Glad to get it,” was the prompt response. “Will you want anything else, now?”
“Yes. Send the janitor here.”
That worthy, upon receipt of a considerable benefaction, expressed himself ready to serve the new tenant to the best of his ability.
“Do you know when Mr. Perkins left the building?”
“Yes, sir. This morning, early.”
“This morning! Sure it wasn’t yesterday?”
“Am I sure? Didn’t I help him to the street-car and hand him his little package? That sick he was he couldn’t hardly walk alone.”