It is an odd and frank custom, that. It is doubtless done for the guidance of the Chinese servants, who know us only by our numbers.
He turned and met me squarely, as I was about to walk by.
“So,” he said, wrinkling up his face into a smile and pecking at me with his monocle. His left eyelid drooped unpleasantly. “So—you, my friend, are the fortunate inhabitant of number sixteen. I was captivated by the lady's voice. I congratulate you—again.” Then, still smiling as he observed my rising anger, he added—“But, my dear Eckhart, you must not look at me as if I were an intruder—not after the lady has sung like that. I could hardly refuse to listen.”
He grew thoughtful, and looked past me toward the door. “Women and song!” he mused. “Women and song!... You are a sly devil, Eckhart.”
He turned, raised his monocle, and again studied the board—with an insolence that was calmness itself.
He was searching for the name of the woman.
I grew hot all over as I stood there watching him. In a moment—a second—he would find it. But no, he was looking everywhere on the board except in the space next to that occupied by my name. Clearly, it had not occurred to him to look there.
I moved closer and peeped over his shoulder. I had not before observed this board, beyond noting in a general way that it hung here by the clerk's desk. I found myself suddenly wondering if she could possibly have been so careless—
There it was—directly under mine. Her own name!
Yes, there was—“Mrs. H. Crocker.” Why she has written herself down so irrevocably I can not imagine. In her dreadful predicament a false name is so clearly indicated.