The Stratford is a hotel for men only, and has the air of quiet seclusion that usually is associated with a conservative club. The lobby is small and far from ornate. The smoking-room is large and comfortable. The dining-room is low-ceilinged and quaint,—a place where one can smoke comfortably,—and the kitchen produces viands that are worth a special trip to taste. Altogether, the Stratford is a place for those who want comfort, quiet, and the best of everything. James Craig, from his air of wel

A rather shabby young man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth strolled into the room without the formality of knocking. He nodded ungraciously at Craig. “I’m Jamison,” he said gloomily. “Police Headquarters. They sent me down to find out about this robbery. What’s up?” Craig, no more than the wreck of the debonair man of a half hour before, told his story, with his eyes glowing strangely from sunken sockets. Jamison listened from a comfortable chair, gazing at the ceiling. “Y’ went out?” he

When Craig pushed open the door again with the room-clerk and the policeman, Jamison was standing by the bureau, where there was a light. He seemed to be examining something in his hand. Craig looked vastly more hopeful, though his face was still a deadly white and his eyes were still sunken deeply into his head. “This officer,” he announced, “saw me when I went out to mail that letter. Tell him about it, Officer.” “I saw him mail a letter, sorr,” said the policeman. “I was standin’ by the mail-

“You’re mugged, now,” observed Jamison. “I guess a flash-light picture will go well in court....” “His ears were pink,” explained Jamison, his tone indicating the ultimate of boredom. “His ears were nice and pink. That gave him away.” Craig was huddled in a chair in the police-station. The big policeman stood guard beside him and the desk-sergeant listened sympathetically to Jamison’s tale of woe. “My Gawd,” said Jamison disgustedly. “I haven’t seen a really neat job in so long you’d think every