him still standing there gazing after me; his face, I thought, wore a
relieved expression as he saw whither I was bound.

The queer incident left my mind as I secluded myself, got my connection,
and heard across the wire the indignant accents of Dick Forrest, my
former college chum. Upon leaving his yacht that morning, I had promised
him a certain power of attorney--Dick is a lawyer and is called a
good one, though I can never quite credit it--and he now demanded in
unjudicial heat why it had not been sent round.

"Good heavens, man," I cut in remorsefully, "I forgot it! The thing
is in my room now. Where are you? That's all right. You'll have it by
messenger within ten minutes." Hastily rehooking the receiver, I bolted
from my booth.

In the restaurant door against a background of paneled walls the _maitre
d'hotel_ still stood, as if watching for my return. I sprang into an
elevator just about to start its ascent, and saw his mouth fall open and
his feet bring him several quick steps forward.

"The man is crazy," I told myself with conviction as I shot up four
stories in as many seconds and was deposited in my hall.

There was no one at the desk where the floor clerk usually kept vigil,
gossiping affably with such employees as passed. The place seemed
deserted; no doubt all the guests were downstairs. Treading lightly on
the thick carpet, I went down the hall to Room four hundred and three,
and found the door ajar and a light visible inside.

My bed, I supposed, was being turned down. I swung the door open, and