"Have you met any of them on the stairs?" he
inquired blandly.

"No, nor nowhere else. You been here now goin'
on three months, and there ain't come a letter, nor
nothin' by express, and no man, woman, or child has
asked for you. Kinder queer, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do think so; and I can hardly blame you.
It IS suspicious--VERY suspicious--alarmingly so," he
rejoined with an indulgent smile. Then growing grave
again: "That will do, madame. I will send for you
when I am ready. Do not lose any sleep and do not
let your husband lose any. I will shut the door
myself."

When the clatter of her rough shoes had ceased to
echo on the stairs he drew the dressing-case from its
hiding-place, tucked it inside his mackintosh, turned
down the gas-jet, locked the door of the room, retracing
his steps until he stood once more in front of Kling's
sign. This time he went in.

"I am glad you are still open," he began, shaking the
wet from his coat. "I hoped you would be. You are
Mr. Kling, are you not?"

"Yes, dot is my name. Vot can I do for you?"