eed any help, just holler," said Alf.

Entering the office of the Grand View Hotel, Marshal Crow looked around
for the despoiler. Save for the presence of the proprietress, Mrs.
Bloomer, relict of the founder of the hostelry, the room was quite
empty. Mrs. Bloomer, however, filled it rather snugly. She was a large
person, and she had a cold in the head which made her feel even larger.
She was now engaged in sweeping the floor.

"Mornin', Jennie," was Anderson's greeting. "Where's the feller that's
stoppin' here?"

Mrs. Bloomer had the sniffles. "He's gone up to his room," she said.
Then after another sniffle: "Why?"

"I want to see him."

"Well his room's at the head of the stairs, to your right."

Anderson twisted his whiskers in momentary perplexity.

"Might be better if you asked him to come down."

"Ask him yourself," she said. "I don't want to see him."

Marshal Crow made a mental reservation to yank Mrs. Bloomer up before
Justice Robb the next time she left the garbage can standing on the
sidewalk overnight.

He hesitated about going up to the guest's bedroom. It wasn't quite the
legal thing to do. The more he thought of it, the longer he hesitated.
In fact, while he was about it, he thought he would draw a chair up to
the big sheet-iron stove and sit down.

"Won't you take off your overcoat and goloshes?" inquired the landlady,
but in a far from hospitable manner.

"How long has this feller been here?" demanded Anderson, moving his left
foot a little, but not quite far enough to avoid the broom.

"Last night."

"Um-m! What's his name and where's he from?"

"Go and look at the register, and then you'll know as much as I do. It's
a public register. Nothing secret about it."

Anderson got up suddenly. "I guess I'll go look while you're sweepin'
around here."

The register on the little counter in the corner revealed the name of a
single arrival below the flowing Spencerian hand of Willie Spence, the
clerk, head waiter, porter and bell-boy of the Grand View Hotel. Willie,
because of his proficiency as a chirographer, always wrote the date line
in the register. He was strong on flourishes, but somewhat feeble in
spelling. Any one with half an eye could see that there was something
wrong with a date line that read: "Febury 25nd 1919." The lone guest's
name, written in a tight "running" hand with total disregard for the
elementary formation of letters, might have been almost anything that
occupied