"It did sound well, reeled off like that, didn't it?" he
observed, chuckling more at my air of eager curiosity than at his
own achievement. "But it's absurdly easy, after all. He is a
young man because his shoes are in the very latest, extreme, not
exclusive style. He is five feet eight, because the size of his
foot goes with that height of man, which, by the way, is the
height of nine out of ten men, any way. He doesn't live in New
York or he wouldn't be stopping at a hotel. Besides, he would be
down-town at this hour, attending to business."

"Unless he has freak business hours, as you and I do," I put in.

"Yes, that might be. But I still hold that he doesn't live in
New York, or he couldn't be staying at this Broadway hotel
overnight, and sending his shoes down to be shined at half-past
nine in the morning. His sweetheart is five feet nine, for that
is the height of a tall girl. I know she is tall, for she wears
a long skirt. Short girls wear short skirts, which make them
look shorter still, and tall girls wear very long skirts, which
make them look taller."

"Why do they do that?" I inquired, greatly interested.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask that of some one wiser than I.
But I know it's a fact. A girl wouldn't be considered really
tall if less than five feet nine. So I know that's her height.
She is his sweetheart, for no man would go from New York to
Brooklyn and bring a lady over here to the theatre, and then take
her home, and return to New York in the early hours of the
morning, if he were not in love with her. I know she lives in