lot of things different in California. The most
he had hoped for was a waiter's job or maybe a short order cook in a fry
joint. But if they wanted to ignore the hotel associations' black list,
he wouldn't argue.

Sextus Forsyte craved anonymity with the passion that most men seek fame
and glory. Beneath his suave, mature exterior beat the shrinking heart
of a perennial hermit whose delight was an adventure book and a bottle
of whiskey.

His recent employer had not objected to his fondness for reading nor
solitude, but his appetite for liquor had revealed itself in a series of
unfortunate crises which plague the life of any hotel executive.

Yes, Sextus Forsyte had sought his solitude in that remotest of all
places, the large city hotel. His career of smiling at strange faces,
welcoming famous people and snapping crisp commands to assistant
managers had provided the near-perfect isolation from normal society. To
the transient eye he was the poised, gregarious greeter. Actually he
lived in a deep well of introversion. Of course, this was no affair of
the succession of boards of directors who had uttered the harsh charges
of "dipsomania" and fired him. But then boards of directors are never
notable for their sympathy or understanding.

And finally word got around the eastern seaboard about Sextus. "A
competent man, yes. Drinks on the job. Wouldn't have him as a busboy."

Worse than the mere prospect of unemployment was the notoriety. Coldly
sober, Sextus had fled panic-stricken to the west coast, vaguely
determined to become a beach-comber or an oyster-fisherman or whatever
they did out there.

He stared now at the blue slip and turned in to a florist shop. He broke
his last five-dollar bill to buy a pink carnation for his buttonhole
then headed down the sunny walk to the hotel. It was a fine December
morning in the little beach town, such as only Florida and California
can advertise. He breathed the salt air and turned an appreciative ear
to the gentle wash of the Pacific surf. He felt so good he might even
take a little breakfast before his first drink of whiskey of the day.

* * * * *

At the bus depot he traded his baggage checks for two old, but fine
leather, two-suiters. Then he taxied the remaining two blocks to the
Mahoney-Plaza.

He paused at the entrance, stepped from under the marquis and looked up
mystified. The frontage indicated a rather small hostelry to pay such
mu