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For an uncertain moment he remained there staring
blankly at the wood, that haunting memory once again mocking every vain
attempt to associate this girl-face with some other he had known
before. Finally, leaving valise and overcoat lying in the hall, he
retraced his way slowly down the stairs.
"Tom," and the young man leaned against the rough counter, his voice
grown graver, "there chances to be a woman at present occupying that
room you just assigned me."
"No! Is that so?" and the clerk swung easily down from his high stool,
drawing the register toward him. "Must be one of the troupe, then.
Let's see--Number Twenty-seven, was n't it? Twenty-seven--oh, yes,
here it is. That's a fact," and his finger slowly traced the line as
he spelled out the name, "'Miss Beth Norvell.' Oh, I remember her
now--black hair, and a long gray coat; best looker among 'em. Manager
said she 'd have to be given a room all to herself; but I clean forgot
I assigned her to Twenty-seven. Make much of a row?"
The other shook his head, bending down so as to read the name with his
own eyes.


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