He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly.  Instantly his heart sank.  “Why, hello, George, old man!” said the voice.  “What are you doing down here?”

Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognized his friend Kenny, the stock-broker.

“Just attending to a little private matter,” he answered, his mind working like a key-board of a telephone station.  This man evidently did not know—­he had not read the papers.

“Well, it seems strange to see you way up here,” said Mr. Kenny genially.  “Stopping here?”

“Yes,” said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the register.

“Going to be in town long?”

“No, only a day or so.”

“Is that so?  Had your breakfast?”

“Yes,” said Hurstwood, lying blandly.  “I’m just going for a shave.”

“Won’t you come have a drink?”

“Not until afterwards,” said the ex-manager.  “I’ll see you later.  Are you stopping here?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added:  “How are things out in Chicago?”

“About the same as usual,” said Hurstwood, smiling genially.

“Wife with you?”

“No.”

“Well, I must see more of you to-day.  I’m just going in here for breakfast.  Come in when you’re through.”

“I will,” said Hurstwood, moving away.  The whole conversation was a trial to him.  It seemed to add complications with very word.  This man called up a thousand memories.  He represented everything he had left.  Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort-all these were in his greeting and inquiries.  And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him.  All at once the Chicago papers would arrive.  The local papers would have accounts in them this very day.  He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man’s eyes, a safe-breaker.  He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop.  He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.

Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear, and hastened toward the stairs.  He would get Carrie and go out by the ladies’ entrance.  They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous place.

Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him.  He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician’s.  This individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly.

Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognized the type.  Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective—­that he was being watched.  He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind was a world of thoughts.  What would happen now?  What could these people do?  He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws.  He did not understand them absolutely.  Perhaps he could be arrested.  Oh, if Carrie should find out!  Montreal was too warm for him.  He began to long to be out of it.