"See here, Mr. Ryder," he sputtered, "I am not challenging your right to make money out of our necessity--that seems to be your business," and he sneered so that it must have hurt him. "But at least you should have some humanity--some bowels of compassion. My wife is ill and almost helpless; the last time I was up there the rooms were already becoming chilled because of the decreased steam pressure. "You positively must let me have one of those stoves Al has there in the storeroom. I don't care what you want for it. I'll pay. I _must_ have one." "They are not for sale, Mr. Jimson," Ryder responded coldly. "Mr. Ryder, this is outrageous! I will give you ten dollars for one of those stoves." "That would be only about fifty per cent. profit on the large stoves, Mr. Jimson. Do you think you would care to do that if you were in my place?" "I--I'll give you twenty--fifty dollars, then," Jimson blurted out. Here George interfered. The clerk seemed really put out with little Jimson. "You should take a walk around and cool off, Mr. Jimson--and Colonel Brack, too. Some of you have been insulting Mr. Ryder for two hours, and jawing your heads off about what he's done. And you don't _know_ what he's done." "Eh?" bristled Jimson, yet puzzled. "He has done what none of the rest of you had public spirit enough to do," went on the hotel clerk. "If anybody pays him for what he has laid out for the comfort of the guests of this hotel it will be the Barnaby estate, when this trouble is finally straightened out. Five minutes ago, Mr. Jimson, Mr. Ryder had one of the largest oil heaters he bought and a nice reading lamp sent up to your wife." "Oh, by Jove! I--I thought---- I didn't understand----" Mr. Jimson's words rambled off into a stammering monologue. Ryder had handed George back the list he had been looking over. "That will be about all, I guess," he said. "I'm going to turn in. Good-night!" and ignoring the apologizing Jimson he made for the stairway. The dining-room was closed. The last elevator boy came out of his cage and locked the door. The hands of the clock in the foyer lacked but a few minutes of midnight. "Gentlemen," said the clerk from his station at the desk. "The dynamos will run but ten minutes longer. The café is closed for the night. I advise you to go to your rooms." The sharp-faced girl whom Ryder had noticed in the dining-room had taken up her station near the foot of the stairs. She had the folded paper novel in her hand. She looked particularly wideawake, and the literary pabulem she so enjoyed might indeed spur her imagination. She was evidently on duty for the night. "Gad!" exclaimed one man. "We might as well be stopping at a Mills' Hotel. They send you to bed with the chickens," and with laughter and jest the company slowly broke up. The telephone buzzed at the clerk's elbow. He took down the receiver, listened a moment, and then spoke to the house detective: