The day clerk, who considered himself a judge, was of the opinion
that there were two or three thousand dollars tied up in the
stones. It was a police affair. Some ambassador had been robbed,
and the Britisher and the Greek or Bulgarian were mixed up in it.
Loot.

"I thought the war was over," said the night clerk.

"The shootin' is over, that's all," said the captain of the bellboys,
sagely.

What had happened in Room 212? A duel of wits rather than of
physical contact. Hawksley realized instantly that here was the
crucial moment. Caught and overpowered, he was lost. If he shouted
for help and it came, he was lost. Once the police took a hand in
the affair, the newspaper publicity that would follow would result
in the total ruin of all his hopes. There was only one chance - to
finish this affair outside the hotel, in some fog-dimmed street.
There leaped into his mind, obliquely and queerly, a picture in one
of Victor Hugo's tales - Quasimodo. And there he stood, in every
particular save the crooked back. And on the top of this came the
recollection that he had seen the man before.... The torches! The
red torches and the hobnailed boots!

There began an odd game, a dancing match, which the young man led
adroitly, always with his thought upon the open window. There
would be no shooting; Quasimodo would not want the police either.
Half a dozen times his fingers touched futilely the dancing master's
coat. Bank and forth across the room, over the bed, round the stand