Five minutes later the taxicab drew up in front of a hotel. The unknown

stepped out, took a leather purse from his pocket and carefully counted

out in silver two dollars and twenty cents, which he poured into the

chauffeur's palm.

"Thank you, sir."

"You are an American?"

"Sure! I was born in this burg."

"Like the idea?"

"Huh?"

"The idea of being an American?"

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"I should say yes! This is one grand little gob o' mud, believe me! It's

going to be dry in a little while, and then it will be some grand little

old brick. Say, let me give you a tip! The gas in this joint is extra if

you blow it out!"

Grinning, the chauffeur threw on the power and wheeled away into the

fog.

His late fare followed the vehicle with his gaze until it reached the

vanishing point, then he laughed. An American cockney! He turned and

entered the hotel. He marched resolutely up to the desk and roused

the sleeping clerk, who swung round the register. The unknown without

hesitance inscribed his name, which was John Hawksley. But he hesitated

the fraction of a second before adding his place of residence--London.

"A room with a bath, if you please; second flight. Have the man call me

at seven."

"Yes, sir. Here, boy!"

Sleepily the bellboy lifted the battered kitbag and led the way to the

elevator.

"Bawth!" said the night clerk, as the elevator door slithered to the

latch. "Bawth! The old dear!"

He returned to his chair, hoping that he would not be disturbed again

until he was relieved.

What do we care, so long as we don't know? What's the stranger to us but

a fleeting shadow? The Odysseys that pass us every day, and we none the

wiser!

The clerk had not properly floated away into dreams when he was again

roused. Resentfully he opened his eyes. A huge fist covered with a

fell of black hair rose and fell. Attached to this fist was an arm,

and joined to that were enormous shoulders. The clerk's trailing,

sleep-befogged glance paused when it reached the newcomer's face. The

jaws and cheeks and upper lip were blue-black with a beard that required

extra-tempered razors once a day. Black eyes that burned like opals, a

bullet-shaped head well cropped, and a pudgy nose broad in the nostrils.

Because this second arrival wore his hat well forward the clerk was

not able to discern the pinched forehead of the fanatic. Not wholly

unpleasant, not particularly agreeable; the sort of individual one

preferred to walk round rather than bump into. The clerk offered the

register, and the squat man scratched his name impatiently, grabbed the

extended key, and trotted to the elevator.




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