he passed and re-passed The Hotel, first with a grim
determination to go in, and then with as grim a determination not to go
in. But at last his wife's troubled, haunting eyes won, as they always
did, and he went in.

Jackson waited an hour before Skinner appeared. Skinner had reckoned
that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around
downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted
himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to
appear casual.

The curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded
a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see Skinner emerge than he
busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of
the Sunday magazine section. With equal assiduity, Skinner, who as
soon as he had left the elevator had observed Jackson, avoided seeing
him, although he clearly perceived him.

Thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown
boys.

"Hello," said Jackson, looking up from his paper as Skinner strolled
past for the fourth time. "You here yet?"

"I hate to tear myself away," said Skinner. "Have a cigar?"

Jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own.

"By Jove," said Skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs
comfortably, "I like this town. Wonderful climate, fine
people--and"--he turned to Jackson--"devilish good grub."

"Have you had a trout dinner yet?" said Jackson.

"Yes. Out at the Lake the other day."

"I mean a _real_ one--cooked by a _real_ cook--all the trimmings."

"No, I can't say that I have."

Jackson paused, drummed on the arm of his chair, and swallowed hard.
"I've got the best cook in the Middle West," he observed.

"That's going some."

"You think you've eaten, don't you? Well, you haven't. You ought to
try _my_ cook."

"That would be fine," said Skinner.

Skinner knew exactly what Jackson would say next. It was wonderful, he
thought, almost uncanny, how the curmudgeon was doing just what he had
schemed out that he would do--willed him to do. He felt like a
magician operating the wires for some manikin to dance at the other end
or a hypnotist directing a subject.

Things were going swimmingly for Jackson, too. He felt that he had
executed his little scheme very well, without any danger of being found
out or even suspected, yet he had never known things to fall in line as
they were doing now. Still, he flattered himself it was good