“And so am I,” was Quincy's response, for his temper was rising, “and you will oblige me by communicating with Miss Dana at once, and informing her of my desire to see her.” “Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Cass, “but my employer, who, as I have said, was formerly a clergyman, is tenacious on another point; all tenants who receive visitors in their rooms must have their names entered in a book prescribed for the purpose, and also the names of their callers.” Quincy's murderous instinct was again aroused, but Mr. Cass was unmindful of his danger and made the required entry. The humourous side of the affair then struck Quincy, and taking a memorandum book from his pocket, he said: “I, too, am tenacious on one point. I never visit a hotel for the first time without writing down the name of the clerk. Will you oblige me?” “Oh, certainly. Cass, Mr. Lorenzo Cass.” “Do you spell it with a 'C'?” asked Quincy, innocently, as he pretended to write. “Oh, certainly. C-a-s-s-.” “Thank you,” said Quincy. “We make it a rule, or rather my employer does, that tenants and their callers shall be treated with civility and their wants attended to promptly.” Again Quincy eyed the telephone stand with a view to its use as a weapon. “Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! Miss Dana--yes, Mr. Cass--Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior, wishes to call upon you in your sitting-room. Is it agreeable to you? Very well, he will come right up.” Mr. Cass replaced the receiver with deliberation, first unwinding a tangled coil in the cord. “Take the elevator--third floor--number 42--she insisted upon taking that suite for some personal reason--” Quincy waited to hear no more but started for the elevator. Mr. Cass reached it as soon as he did, and motioned for the elevator man to postpone the ascent until he had finished his remarks. “The outside door is locked at eleven, Mr. Sawyer, but you have only to turn the upper handle to insure an exit.” “Your clerk is quite loquacious,” remarked Quincy as they slowly mounted upward. “What's that?” “He has a sore tongue,” said Quincy, as the elevator door was closed behind him. After cordial greetings on both sides, for they had not seen each other for nearly a year, Quincy exclaimed, as he sank into a proffered easy chair: “Mary, I am a murderer at heart.” “That is not strange, Quincy. I have read that the friends of police officers and detectives often imbibe, or rather absorb, criminal propensities. Who is the intended victim, and how do you expect to escape arrest, conviction, and punishment, after incriminating yourself by a confession to a licensed detective?” “If I had killed your hotel clerk it would have been due to emotional insanity, and I should expect an acquittal--and, perhaps, a testimonial.” “I got a testimonial to-day from Mr. Isburn. He said I was a wonder.” “I agree with him.” Miss Dana flushed perceptibly. “He had what he considered a good reason for his compliment. I am afraid yours rests on unsupported grounds.”