The taxi cut suddenly off Broadway, sailed along a cross street, and stopped in front of a heavy tomb-like building in Fifth Avenue. “What’s idea?” The taxi-driver informed them that this was Delmonico’s. This was somewhat puzzling. They were forced to devote several minutes to intense concentration, for if such an order had been given there must have been a reason for it. “Somep’m ’bouta coat,” suggested the taxi-man. That was it. Peter’s overcoat and hat. He had left them at Delmonico’s. Having decided this, they disembarked from the taxi and strolled toward the entrance arm in arm. “Hey!” said the taxi-driver. “Huh?” “You better pay me.” They shook their heads in shocked negation. “Later, not now--we give orders, you wait.” The taxi-driver objected; he wanted his money now. With the scornful condescension of men exercising tremendous self-control they paid him. Inside Peter groped in vain through a dim, deserted check-room in search of his coat and derby. “Gone, I guess. Somebody stole it.” “Some Sheff student.” “All probability.” “Never mind,” said Dean, nobly. “I’ll leave mine here too--then we’ll both be dressed the same.” He removed his overcoat and hat and was hanging them up when his roving glance was caught and held magnetically by two large squares of cardboard tacked to the two coat-room doors. The one on the left-hand door bore the word “In” in big black letters, and the one on the right-hand door flaunted the equally emphatic word “Out.” “Look!” he exclaimed happily-- Peter’s eyes followed his pointing finger. “What?” “Look at the signs. Let’s take ’em.” “Good idea.” “Probably pair very rare an’ valuable signs. Probably come in handy.” Peter removed the left-hand sign from the door and endeavored to conceal it about his person. The sign being of considerable proportions, this was a matter of some difficulty. An idea flung itself at him, and with an air of dignified mystery he turned his back. After an instant he wheeled dramatically around, and stretching out his arms displayed himself to the admiring Dean. He had inserted the sign in his vest, completely covering his shirt front. In effect, the word “In” had been painted upon his shirt in large black letters. “Yoho!” cheered Dean. “Mister In.” He inserted his own sign in like manner. “Mister Out!” he announced triumphantly. “Mr. In meet Mr. Out.” They advanced and shook hands. Again laughter overcame them and they rocked in a shaken spasm of mirth. “Yoho!” “We probably get a flock of breakfast.” “We’ll go--go to the Commodore.” Arm in arm they sallied out the door, and turning east in Forty-fourth Street set out for the Commodore. As they came out a short dark soldier, very pale and tired, who had been wandering listlessly along the sidewalk, turned to look at them.