The next evening Harding was taking out a cigar in the vestibule when a man brushed past him wearing big mittens and a loose black cloak such as old-fashioned French-Canadians sometimes use.
“Why, Blake!” he cried. “What have you got on? Have you been serenading somebody?”
“I can’t stop,” Blake answered with a grin. “Open that door for me—quick!”
A porter held back the door, but as Blake slipped through, Harding seized his cloak.
“Hold on! I want a talk with you!”
Blake made an effort to break loose, and as he did so a bobcat dropped from beneath his arm and fell, spitting and snarling, to the floor. Its fur was torn and matted, tufts were hanging loose, and the creature had a singularly disreputable and ferocious appearance. Blake made an attempt to recapture it, but, evading him eas
