It was absurd enough, it hailed doubtless from the nervous loneliness within himself, yet Johnson Boller felt that the youngster was a downright evil force, swaggering along there, tremendously conscious of his own importance! He should have been sedate and subdued, to put it mildly, yet he grinned at the impeccable night clerk from under his cap and sent his impudent eyes roving on, to alight finally on the big chair near the north elevator. "Who's the party with the big specs and why the prolonged stare?" the youngster asked irreverently. "Eh? Oh, that's Mr. Hitchin, a neighbor of mine," Anthony smiled. "He's an amateur detective, kid," Johnson Boller added significantly. "He knows every young crook in town. He's coming here to give you the once over." "I should worry," murmured the self-possessed young man. "Johnson, don't be idiotic," Anthony said, as he laid a hand on the boy's arm. "I'll have to introduce you. What's your name, my lad?" "Eh?" asked the unusual boy, staring hard at Anthony. "Your name! What is it?" "Well--er--Prentiss," the youth admitted. "Is that your first name or your last name?" "That's just my last name," the boy smiled. "First name's David." "David Prentiss, eh?" Anthony murmured with some satisfaction, for it had a substantial sound. "Well, David--er, Hitchin, how are you? Mr. Hitchin, my young friend, Mr. David Prentiss." The boy's hand went out and gripped Hitchin's heartily enough. Mr. Hitchin held it for a moment and peered at David--and one saw what a really penetrating stare he owned. It bored, as a point of tempered ice, wordlessly accusing one of murder, counterfeiting, bank burglary and plain second-story work. Frequently deep students of the higher detective fiction grow this stare, and Hobart Hitchin was one of the deepest. But now, having pierced David in a dozen places without finding bomb or knife, the stare turned to Anthony and grew quite normal and amiable. "Prentiss, eh?" said Hitchin. "Not the Vermont branch?" "New York," David supplied. "Mr. Prentiss is staying with me for a little," Anthony smiled as they moved toward the elevator again. "Staying with you, eh?" Hitchin repeated, with a careful survey of David's well-worn storm-coat; and added, with characteristic bluntness: "Working for you, Fry?" "My guest," Anthony said annoyedly; and then the car came down and the door opened and they left Mr. Hitchin, but the boy cocked an eye at Anthony and asked flatly: "What was the idea of that--staying with you? I'm not staying with you." "You may decide to stay for a little." "Not me," said David. "We shall see," Anthony chuckled. "This is our floor."