I wanted, empty—and moreover, so situated that I should be admirably placed for close-at-hand study of the tragedy. I glanced at my watch—it was only half-past seven—and I hurried into my coat in a sudden fever of impatience lest someone else should get there before me.
Twenty minutes’ walk brought me to the Marathon apartment house, and as I stepped into the vestibule, I saw sitting by the elevator a red-faced man whom I recognised instantly as Higgins, the janitor. He rose as I approached him.
“You have an apartment here to rent, haven’t you?” I asked.
“Not jest now, sir,” he answered. “There will be next week—if th’ walkin’ delegates leaves us alone. You see, th’ house is bein’ remodelled.”
“Oh,” I said, more disappointed than I cared to show, “I thought perhaps there was one I could move into at once. Next week won’t do me any good.”
He moistened his lips and scratched his head, eyeing me undecidedly.
“May I ask your name, sir?” he said, at last.
I handed him a card, which had also the address of my firm, Graham & Royce. He read it slowly.
“We’ve got one apartment, sir,” he said, looking up when he had mastered it; “two rooms an’ bath—but it needs a little cleanin’ up. When do y’ have t’ have it?”
“I have to move in to-morrow,” I answered, and I told him briefly why. “May I look at this apartment?”
