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"The gentleman will follow me," he invited.

Then, for some minutes, Wilfred Haven walked once more the paths of luxury, breathed the warmed airs of the almost overheated hotel, trod on soft carpets, met without shrinking the curious glances of a whole crowd of civilised people. He stepped into a smoothly running lift and was led into a suite of rooms which reminded him very much of the Ritz. The hotel clerk, with one eye upon Alexis, lingered near the door.

"This suite," he announced, "will cost the gentleman—"

He paused to figure it out.

"American or English money, if you please," Haven begged. "Not that it matters a damn."

"Fifty dollars a day."

"I take it," Haven decided. "Send your valet to turn on the bath. Send soap, bath salts, a coiffeur."

The hotel clerk became almost human. After all, these were stirring times. Perhaps the plight of this strange young man was to be accounted for.

"Everything that is possible for your comfort, sir," he promised, bowing.

Haven was already in the bathroom, which seemed to him a palace of marble-tiled luxury. The taps responded to his touch. The warmth, after that awful ride, was like a soporific. He began to tear off his clothes.