"Same here," said Leonard Trask promptly. "We're all three rooming together in Maury's Private Dorm on Hill Place. Number 15. Drop around."
Harold thanked him and said that he would, though he secretly doubted it. He did not feel comfortable with these pseudoaristocrats. Leonard Trask, he conceded, might be all right alone. He must be all right. Wasn't he a brother of the great Chester?
Harold saw no signs of Peggy as he walked through the front hall of the Sayre house and up to his room. He surmised correctly that she was on duty at the Hotel Tate. However, he was not to want for company. Hardly had he closed his room door and settled into the less rickety of his two chairs when there was a knock on the door. Harold called out, "Come in," in true middle western fashion. A tall old—young man, bareheaded and with a wisp of straw-colored hair in his eyes, walked briskly into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. A rectangular bundle, thin but of large dimensions. He slowly and impressively denuded it of its crackling wrapping paper and revealed a large framed reproduction of a lion showing its teeth in a most unfriendly manner. An artist might have branded the picture a crude reproduc-
