by Murray Leinster
I
The Stratford is a hotel for men only, and has the air of quiet
seclusion that usually is associated with a conservative club. The
lobby is small and far from ornate. The smoking-room is large and
comfortable. The dining-room is low-ceilinged and quaint,—a place
where one can smoke comfortably,—and the kitchen produces viands that
are worth a special trip to taste. Altogether, the Stratford is a
place for those who want comfort, quiet, and the best of everything.
James Craig, from his air of well-being, had enjoyed it to the full.
An hour before, he had arisen from his table with that sensation of
internal comfort that can come only from a well-ordered and
well-cooked meal. He had chosen a cigar with discrimination, and
lighted it with care. He had spent possibly twenty minutes or more in
the smoking-room, idling over his newspaper in comfortable repletion,
and then had scribbled a note at a writing-desk. With the methodical
air of one to whom life is an excuse for the perpetration of
systematic actions, he drew out a small notebook and extracted a
stamp. He affixed the stamp and made a note in the book. It read: