receiving teller, put the question he had formulated in his mind: Could
they give him any information concerning a customer or correspondent
who had just arrived in San Francisco and was putting up at the Niantic
Hotel, room 74? He felt his face flushing, but, to his astonishment, the
clerk manifested no surprise. "And you don't know his name?" said the
clerk quietly. "Wait a moment." He moved away, and Randolph saw him
speaking to one of the other clerks, who consulted a large register.
In a few minutes he returned. "We don't have many customers," he began
politely, "who leave only their hotel-room addresses," when he was
interrupted by a mumbling protest from one of the other clerks. "That's
very different," he replied to his fellow clerk, and then turned to
Randolph. "I'm afraid we cannot help you; but I'll make other inquiries
if you'll come back in ten minutes." Satisfied to be relieved from the
present perils of his questioning, and doubtful of returning, Randolph
turned away. But as he left the building he saw a written notice on
the swinging door, "Wanted: a Night Porter;" and this one chance of
employment determined his return.

When he again presented himself at the window the clerk motioned him to
step inside through a lifted rail. Here he found himself confronted by
the clerk and another man, distinguished by a certain air of authority,
a keen gray eye, and singularly compressed lips set in a closely clipped
beard. The clerk indicated him deferentially but briefly--everybody
was astonishingly brief and businesslike there--as the president. The
president absorbed and possessed Randolph with eyes that never seemed
to leave him. Then leaning back against the counter, which he lightly
grasped with both hands, he said: "We've sent to the Niantic Hotel to
inquire about your man. He ordered his room by letter, giving no name.
He arrived there on time last night, slept there, and has occupied the
room No. 74 ever since. WE don't know him from Adam, but"--his eyes