The pajamaed one glared at the flowers and the envelope; then he turned
and flung them into a corner of the living-room.

"Hell!" he said in disgust. "Harleston's either crazy or in love: it's
the same thing anyway."

He slammed the door and went back to bed.

Harleston, chuckling, returned to his quarters; retrieved from the floor
a leaf and a petal and tossed them out of the window. Then, being
assured by a careful inspection of the room that there were no further
traces of the roses remaining, he went to bed.

Two minutes after his head touched the pillow, he was asleep.

Presently he awoke--listening!

Some one was on the fire-escape. The passage leading to it was just at
the end of his suite; more than that, one could climb over the railing,
and, by a little care, reach the sill of his bedroom window. This sill
was wide and offered an easy footing. If the window were up, one could
easily step inside; or, even if it were not, the catch could be slipped
in a moment.

Harleston's window, however, was up--invitingly up; also the window on
the passage; it was a warm night and any air was grateful.

He lay quite still and waited developments. They came from another
quarter: the corridor on which his apartment opened. Someone was there.