XVI
MOUNT ROYAL, high over the city. Sunday on St. Catherine street as a limousine whirled Ken from the flying field to the hotel. Women in summery dresses, men in shirt sleeves, the French signs over the shops.
The hotel stood, a massive square block of checkered windows. Ken entered cautiously, looking around as if to make sure that no one was watching his entrance. He went straight to the desk.
"I made a telegraphic reservation," he told the clerk. "Will you please find out if Howard Vee is in the hotel?" A pause. He signed the register, dispatched a bell-boy with his bag to his room.
"Mr. Vee has left orders not to be disturbed," the clerk informed him.
"I came here from New York specially to see him," Ken said. The clerk smiled and bowed.
"I cannot call him. His room is number six-hundred and four."
Ken hurried to the elevator. In a moment he was standing before the door of Howard's room. A smile broke upon his lips, which had hitherto been drawn in a tight line. He rapped.
"Who's there?" he heard Howard ask.
"Open, Howie," he cried. The door moved slowly open. He could read Howard's astonished pleasure in his gaping mouth and startled eyes.
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