red neckties and tan shoes. And not only were the shoes the porter
lifted from the floor of a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf
which was run through the turned over collar was a gaudy red. It
took a full minute for the real import of things to penetrate my
dazed intelligence. Then I gave a vindictive kick at the offending
ensemble.

"They're not mine, any of them," I snarled. "They are some other
fellow's. I'll sit here until I take root before I put them on."

"They're nice lookin' clothes," the porter put in, eying the red
tie with appreciation. "Ain't everybody would have left you
anything."

"Call the conductor," I said shortly. Then a possible explanation
occurred to me. "Oh, porter--what's the number of this berth?"

"Seven, sir. If you cain't wear those shoes--"

"Seven!" In my relief I almost shouted it. "Why, then, it's
simple enough. I'm in the wrong berth, that's all. My berth is
nine. Only--where the deuce is the man who belongs here?"

"Likely in nine, sir." The darky was enjoying himself. "You and
the other gentleman just got mixed in the night. That's all, sir."
It was clear that he thought I had been drinking.

I drew a long breath. Of course, that was the explanation. This
was number seven's berth, that was his soft hat, this his umbrella,
his coat, his bag. My rage turned to irritation at myself.