THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
would be seventy-five, a tottering old man, whose greatest exploit would be to walk down to the corner once a day for his tobacco. All these cogitations served merely to bring Armitage back to the beginning of the circle.
Where should he go? He could not go on wandering all over New York; and yet he knew he would not sleep if he went to the hotel. He looked about with seeing eyes for the first time, and recognized the locality. He was within a block of the office. Good! He would go up there and try to figure it out. He felt in his pocket and was pleased to find that he was carrying his keys. He would smoke his pipe, pace, and think.
The same photograph, absolutely the same!
He entered the Armitage, still brooding, and mounted the stairs. He had fallen again under the spell of hypnosis. His actions were mechanical. He stooped before the door to insert the key—and straightened up, galvanized. Lights! He had walked squarely up to the door without noticing the lights! Had he turned them
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