Mr. Valentine Corliss would be glad to see him, the clerk at the Richfield Hotel reported, after sending up a card, and upon Ray’s following the card, Mr. Valentine Corliss in person confirmed the message with considerable amusement and a cordiality in which there was some mixture of the quizzical.  He was the taller; and the robust manliness of his appearance, his splendid health and boxer’s figure offered a sharp contrast to the superlatively lean tippler.  Corliss was humorously aware of his advantage:  his greeting seemed really to say, “Hello, my funny bug, here you are again!” though the words of his salutation were entirely courteous; and he followed it with a hospitable offer.

“No,” said Vilas; “I won’t drink with you.”  He spoke so gently that the form of his refusal, usually interpreted as truculent, escaped the other’s notice.  He also declined a cigar, apologetically asking permission to light one of his own cigarettes; then, as he sank into a velour-covered chair, apologized again for the particular attention he was bestowing upon the apartment, which he recognized as one of the suites de luxe of the hotel.

“`Parlour, bedroom, and bath,’” he continued, with a melancholy smile; “and `Lachrymae,’ and `A Reading from Homer.’  Sometimes they have `The Music Lesson,’ or `Winter Scene’ or `A Neapolitan Fisher Lad’ instead of `Lachrymae,’ but they always have `A Reading from Homer.’  When you opened the door, a moment ago, I had a very strong impression that something extraordinary would some time happen to me in this room.”

“Well,” suggested Corliss, “you refused a drink in it.”

“Even more wonderful than that,” said Ray, glancing about the place curiously.  “It may be a sense of something painful that already has happened here—­perhaps long ago, before your occupancy.  It has a pathos.”

“Most hotel rooms have had something happen in them,” said Corliss lightly.  “I believe the managers usually change the door numbers if what happens is especially unpleasant.  Probably they change some of the rugs, also.”

“I feel——­” Ray paused, frowning.  “I feel as if some one had killed himself here.”

“Then no doubt some of the rugs have been changed.”

“No doubt.”  The caller laughed and waved his hand in dismissal of the topic.  “Well, Mr. Corliss,” he went on, shifting to a brisker tone, “I have come to make my fortune, too.  You are Midas.  Am I of sufficient importance to be touched?”

Valentine Corliss gave him sidelong an almost imperceptibly brief glance of sharpest scrutiny—­it was like the wink of a camera shutter—­but laughed in the same instant.  “Which way do you mean that?”

“You have been quick,” returned the visitor, repaying that glance with equal swiftness, “to seize upon the American idiom.  I mean:  How small a contribution would you be willing to receive toward your support!”

Corliss did not glance again at Ray; instead, he looked interested in the smoke of his cigar. “`Contribution,’” he repeated, with no inflection whatever. “`Toward my support.’”