a slight smile upon his lips.

"Well?" he said. Then he entered the room and stood for
a moment quietly looking into The Man's face.

"So," he said, "it was you." He walked into the room and
laid the light coat that he had been carrying over his
arm upon the table. He drew a cigar-case from his waistcoat
pocket.

"Try one of these Havanas," he said.

Observe the _calm_ of it. This is what the snoopopath
loves--no rage, no blustering--calmness, cynicism. He
walked over towards the mantelpiece and laid his hat upon
it. He set his boot upon the fender.

"It was cold this evening," he said. He walked over to
the window and gazed a moment into the dark.

"This is a nice hotel," he said. (This scene is what the
author and the reader love; they hate to let it go. They'd
willingly keep the man walking up and down for hours
saying "Well!")

The Man raised his head! "Yes, it's a good hotel," he
said. Then he let his head fall again.

This kind of thing goes on until, if possible, the reader
is persuaded into thinking that there is nothing going