livid face had filled me with alarm, and he had declared that he was ill. That night he had been driven to this hotel. The reason was too clear for even a blind fool like myself to fail to understand. He had seen some one in the lobby—some one whom he had not expected to see. I could not doubt who it was—no, I could not doubt it, though I would have given all I possessed to be able to do so.
I walked into the hotel, elbowing my way through a crowd of wide-staring men, and went at once to the clerk. I asked him if a young man named Arthur Ravener had arrived at the hotel the previous night. He referred to his register, but could find no such name. I told him he must be mistaken; but this had the effect of rendering him mute. I forgot that an American hotel clerk could not possibly, under any circumstances, be mistaken. I then informed him that I had just spoken with the driver who had conducted Mr. Ravener, with his baggage, to the hotel, and left him there. He was surprised, but he had not been "on duty" at that time. He suggested that I speak to Mr. Price, the
