er a feminine voice was giving quick orders in French, presumably to
a maid. The porter was on his knees, looking under the berth.

"Not there, sir," he said, dusting his knees. He was visibly more
cheerful, having been absolved of responsibility. "Reckon it was taken
while you was wanderin' around the car last night."

"I'll give you fifty dollars if you find it," I said. "A hundred. Reach
up my shoes and I'll--"

I stopped abruptly. My eyes were fixed in stupefied amazement on a
coat that hung from a hook at the foot of my berth. From the coat they
traveled, dazed, to the soft-bosomed shirt beside it, and from there to
the collar and cravat in the net hammock across the windows.

"A hundred!" the porter repeated, showing his teeth. But I caught him by
the arm and pointed to the foot of the berth.

"What--what color's that coat?" I asked unsteadily.

"Gray, sir." His tone was one of gentle reproof.

"And--the trousers?"

He reached over and held up one creased leg. "Gray, too," he grinned.

"Gray!" I could not believe even his corroboration of my own eyes.
"But my clothes were blue!" The porter was amused: he dived under the
curtains and brought up a pair of shoes. "Your shoes, sir," he said with
a flourish. "Reckon you've been dreaming, sir."

Now, there are two things I always avoid in my dress--possibly an
idiosyncrasy of my bachelor existence. These tabooed articles are red
neckties and tan shoes. And not only were the shoes the porter lifted
from the floor of a gorgeous shade of yellow, but the scarf which was
run through the turned over collar was a gaudy red. It took a full
minute for the real import of things to penetrate my dazed intelligence.
Then I gave a vindictive kick at the offending ensemble.

"They're not mine, any of them," I snarled. "They are some other
fellow's. I'll sit here until I take root before I put them on."

"They're nice lookin' clothes," the porter put in, eying the red tie
with appreciation. "Ain't everybody would have left you anything."

"Call the conductor," I said shortly. Then a possible explanation
occurred to me. "Oh, porter--what's the number of this berth?"

"Seven, sir. If you cain't wear those shoes--"

"Seven!" In my relief I almost shouted it. "Why, then, it's simple
enough. I'm in the wrong berth, that's all. My berth is nine.
Only--where the deuce is the man who belongs here?"

"Likely in nine, sir." The darky was enjoying himself. "You and the
other gen