remarked, "which are simply being held over. If you would prefer 317, you
can have it, and I will give 217 to our other client."

"Thank you," I answered, "I should prefer 317 if you can manage it."

He scribbled the number upon a ticket and handed it to the porter, who
stood behind with my dressing-case. A page caught up the key, and I
followed them to the lift. In the light of things which happened
afterwards, I have sometimes wondered what became of the unfortunate
junior clerk who gave me room number 317.

* * * * *

It was six o'clock when I arrived at the Hotel Universal. I washed,
changed my clothes, and was shaved in the barber's shop. Afterwards, I
spent, I think, the ordinary countryman's evening about town--having some
regard always to the purpose of my visit. I dined at my club, went on to
the Empire with a couple of friends, supped at the Savoy, and, after a
brief return visit to the club, a single game of billiards and a final
whisky and soda, returned to my hotel contented and sleepy, and quite
prepared to tumble into bed. By some chance--the history of nations, as
my own did, will sometimes turn upon such slight events--I left my door
ajar whilst I sat upon the edge of the bed finishing a cigarette and
treeing my boots, preparatory to depositing them outside. Suddenly my
attention was arrested by a somewhat curious sound. I distinctly heard
the swift, stealthy footsteps of a man running at full speed along the
corridor. I leaned forward to listen. Then, without a moment's warning,
they paused outside my door. It was hastily pushed open and as hastily
closed. A man, half clothed and panting, was standing facing me--a
strange, pitiable object. The boots slipped from my fingers. I stared at