reasoned that he must try a little longer; and then one day in a hotel
register dated nearly five months back, he found this entry:

"Carlia Davis."

Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the name. Carlia was not a
common name, and the handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He
examined the signature closely. The girl, unexperienced in the art of
subterfuge, had started to write her name, and had gotten to the D in
Duke, when the thought of disguise had come to her. Yes; there was an
unusual break between that first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia
had been here. He was on the right track, thank the Lord!

Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remembered the lady. Did he
know anything about her? No; that was so long ago. His people came and
went. That was all. But Carlia had been here. That much was certain.
Here was at least a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which he
could work. His wearied and confused mind could at least come back to
that name in the hotel register.

He began a systematic search of the town. First he visited the small
business section, but without results. Then he took up the residential
district, systematically, so that he would not miss any. One afternoon
he knocked on the door of what appeared to be one of the best
residences. After a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly
painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the handsome young fellow and
bade him come in. He stepped into the hall and was shown into what
seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had known had not smelled
so of stale tobacco smoke. He made his usual inquiry. No; no such girl
was here, she was sorry, but--the words which came from the carmine lips