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The object of interest was crossing the street in the direction of the Grand View Hotel. The group watched him with mild interest. In front of the two-story frame building that seemed to stagger, or at least to shrink, under the weight of its own importance, the stranger–a man–paused to glance at one of the placards heralding the misfortune and at the same time the far from parsimonious regard of the lady who had been despoiled of a fashionable bulldog. Having perused the singularly comprehensive notice, he deliberately tore it down, folded it with some care, and stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he entered the Grand View Hotel.

“Well, I’ll be ding-blasted!” exclaimed Marshal Crow.

Mr. Reesling’s animosity gave way to civic pride. “By jingo, Anderson,” he cried, “if you want any help arrestin’ that scoundrel, call on me! Comin’ around here defacin’ things like that–he ought to go to jail.”

Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, voiced a time-tried but fruitless criticism. “If you’d paste ’em up instead of tackin’ ’em up, people couldn’t take ’em down like that. I’ve told you–“

“If you got any complaints to make about me, Elmer, you’d better make ’em to the town board and not to Alf Reesling and Newt Spratt,” interrupted Marshal Crow testily. “Besides I do paste ’em up when I run out of tacks.”

He started off toward the Grand View, his head erect, his whiskers bristling with indignation.

“Shall we go with you, Anderson?” inquired Alf.

“‘Tain’t necessary,” replied the Marshal, “but you might go over and wait for me in front of the hotel.”

“If you need any help, just holler,” said Alf.

Entering the office of the Grand View Hotel, Marshal Crow looked around for the despoiler. Save for the presence of the proprietress, Mrs. Bloomer, relict of the founder of the hostelry, the room was quite empty. Mrs. Bloomer, however, filled it rather snugly. She was a large person, and she had a cold in the head which made her feel even larger. She was now engaged in sweeping the floor.

“Mornin’, Jennie,” was Anderson’s greeting. “Where’s the feller that’s stoppin’ here?”

Mrs. Bloomer had the sniffles. “He’s gone up to his room,” she said. Then after another sniffle: “Why?”

“I want to see him.”

“Well his room’s at the head of the stairs, to your right.”

Anderson twisted his whiskers in momentary perplexity.

“Might be better if you asked him to come down.”

“Ask him yourself,” she said. “I don’t want to see him.”

Marshal Crow made a mental reservation to yank Mrs. Bloomer up before Justice Robb the next time she left the garbage can standing on the sidewalk overnight.

He hesitated about going up to the guest’s bedroom. It wasn’t quite the legal thing to do. The more he thought of it, the longer he hesitated. In fact, while he was about it, he thought he would draw a chair up to the big sheet-iron stove and sit down.

“Won’t you take off your overcoat and goloshes?” inquired the landlady, but in a far from hospitable manner.

“How long has this feller been here?” demanded Anderson, moving his left foot a little, but not quite far enough to avoid the broom.

“Last night.”

“Um-m! What’s his name and where’s he from?”

“Go and look at the register, and then you’ll know as much as I do. It’s a public register. Nothing secret about it.”

Anderson got up suddenly. “I guess I’ll go look while you’re sweepin’ around here.”

The register on the little counter in the corner revealed the name of a single arrival below the flowing Spencerian hand of Willie Spence, the clerk, head waiter, porter and bell-boy of the Grand View Hotel. Willie, because of his proficiency as a chirographer, always wrote the date line in the register. He was strong on flourishes, but somewhat feeble in spelling. Any one with half an eye could see that there was something wrong with a date line that read: “Febury 25nd 1919.” The lone guest’s name, written in a tight “running” hand with total disregard for the elementary formation of letters, might have been almost anything that occupied less than two inches of space. Even his place of residence was a matter of doubt.