the great city, and, of these, several--or perhaps one--are here set
down.

I

At nine o'clock on the morning of the first of May, 1919, a young man
spoke to the room clerk at the Biltmore Hotel, asking if Mr. Philip
Dean were registered there, and if so, could he be connected with Mr.
Dean's rooms. The inquirer was dressed in a well-cut, shabby suit. He
was small, slender, and darkly handsome; his eyes were framed above
with unusually long eyelashes and below with the blue semicircle of
ill health, this latter effect heightened by an unnatural glow which
colored his face like a low, incessant fever.

Mr. Dean was staying there. The young man was directed to a telephone
at the side.

After a second his connection was made; a sleepy voice hello'd from
somewhere above.

"Mr. Dean?"--this very eagerly--"it's Gordon, Phil. It's Gordon
Sterrett. I'm down-stairs. I heard you were in New York and I had a
hunch you'd be here."

The sleepy voice became gradually enthusiastic. Well, how was Gordy,
old boy! Well, he certainly was surprised and tickled! Would Gordy
come right up, for Pete's sake!

A few minutes later Philip Dean, dressed in blue silk pajamas, opened
his door and the two young men greeted each other with a