is a long, comfortable lobby where, under the eagle eye of the
clerk in the corner, only tenants or guests of tenants may lounge.

Into this latter area came Anthony Fry and Johnson Boller and the boy,
and as the peculiarly intelligent eyes of the latter darted about it
seemed to Mr. Boller that their twinkle turned to a positive glitter.

It was absurd enough, it hailed doubtless from the nervous loneliness
within himself, yet Johnson Boller felt that the youngster was a
downright evil force, swaggering along there, tremendously conscious of
his own importance! He should have been sedate and subdued, to put it
mildly, yet he grinned at the impeccable night clerk from under his cap
and sent his impudent eyes roving on, to alight finally on the big chair
near the north elevator.

"Who's the party with the big specs and why the prolonged stare?" the
youngster asked irreverently.

"Eh? Oh, that's Mr. Hitchin, a neighbor of mine," Anthony smiled.

"He's an amateur detective, kid," Johnson Boller added significantly.
"He knows every young crook in town. He's coming here to give you the
once over."

"I should worry," murmured the self-possessed young man.

"Johnson, don't be idiotic," Anthony said, as he laid a hand on the
boy's arm. "I'll have to introduce you. What's your name, my lad?"

"Eh?" asked the unusual boy, staring hard at Anthony.

"Your name! What is it?"

"Well--er--Prentiss," the youth admitted.

"Is that your first name or your last name?"

"That's just my last name," the boy smiled. "First name's David."

"David Prentiss, eh?" Anthony murmured with some satisfaction, for it
had a substantial sound. "Well, David--er, Hitchin, how are you? Mr.
Hitchin, my young friend, Mr. David Prentiss."

The boy's hand went out and gripped Hitchin's heartily enough. Mr.
Hitchin held it for a moment and peered at David--and one saw what a
really penetrating stare he owned.

It bored, as a point of tempered ice, wordlessly accusing one of murder,
counterfeiting, bank burglary and plain second-story work. Frequently
deep students of the higher detective fiction grow this stare, and
Hobart Hitchin was one of the deepest. But now, having pierced David in
a dozen places without finding bomb or knife, the stare turned to
Anthony and grew quite normal and amiable.

"Prentiss, eh?" said Hitchin. "Not the Vermont branch?"

"New York," David supplied.

"Mr. Prentiss is staying with me for a little," Anthony smiled