Cone as he argued and begged them not to act
hastily. But something of the mob spirit had taken possession of the
guests in front of the desk who stood and glowered at him, and his
conciliatory attitude, his obsequiousness, only added to it.

If nothing else had happened to strain Mr. Cone's self-control further,
he and his guests might have separated with at least a semblance of good
feeling, but the fatal word which he had feared in his forebodings came
from Mrs. J. Harry Stott, who majestically descended the broad staircase
carrying before her a small reddish-brown insect impaled on a
darning-needle. She walked to the desk and presented it for Mr. Cone's
consideration. It was a most indelicate action, but the knowledge that
it was such did not lessen the horror with which the guests regarded it.

Aghast, speechless, Mr. Cone, one of whose proudest boasts had been of
the hotel's cleanliness, could not have been more shocked if he had
learned that he was a leper.

There were shudders, ejaculations, and a general determination to leave
even sooner than anticipated.

"Where did you find it?" Mr. Cone finally managed to ask hoarsely.

"Walking on my pillow!" replied Mrs. Stott, dramatically. "_And I think
there are others!_ If you will see that my trunks get off on the 4:17 I
shall be obliged to you."

Mr. Cone knew it was coming. He felt the symptoms which warned him that
he was going to "fly off the handle." He leaned over the counter. Mrs.
Stott's eyes were so close together that, like Cyclops, she seemed to
have but one, and they had the appearance of growing even closer as Mr.
Cone looked into them.

"Do not give yourself any concern on that score, madam. Your trunks will
be at the station as soon as they are ready and it will please me if you
will follow them.

"For twelve years I have been pretending not to know that you used the
hotel soap to do your washing in the bath-tub, and it is a relief to
mention it to you.

"And, Miss Gaskett," the deadly coldness of his voice made her shiver,
"I doubt if the fuzz under your bed has troubled you as much as the fact
that for three summers your cat has had kittens in the linen closet has
annoyed me."

The Baltimore widow had his attention:

"It is possible that the drip from your faucet and the squeak in your
rocking-chair gets on your nerves, my dear lady, but not more than your
daily caterwauling on the hotel piano gets on mine.

"I shall miss your check,