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 the florid signature of a Spenserian caligraphist who had arrived singularly from Washington, D. C. He was “Thos. Sullivan.”

Babbing put up his glasses, resumed his umbrella and led the way to a leather sofa. “I think our man is here,” he said to Barney, “under the name of Thomas Sullivan. He writes like a forger, anyway. We ’ve got to pick him up and feel him out. I ’m going outside to telephone to him. If he ’s in his room, I ’ll give him a stall. If he is n’t, I ’ll have him paged. Thomas Sullivan. You follow the boy around. Nobody ’ll notice you. They ’ll think you ’re looking for some one. Spot Sullivan if the boy flnds him, and show him to me when I come back. Then we ’ll get together and rope him.”

“Yes, sir,” Barney said.

“The telephone booths are down that hall at the left of the desk. There ’s a parcel rack there, and you ’d better check this bag till we know what we ’re going to do. The dining-room ’s at the end of the hall. Sullivan may