Temple Town came awake slowly.
It was one of those towns where night activity was the life, drawing every citizen into its fold like the embrace of a dear one. They slept late and woke late.
The night fog was still hanging over the town, thick and dreary so that the first rays of the sun barely penetrated it.
Mike Crankson drew his trilby down lower on his head as he mounted the stairs of the Paradise Hotel.
Joel Rodd, the portly porter, was polishing his tiny glasses, red lips slightly pouted with concentration, and when he heard the footsteps he looked up and his red face was instantly transformed when he saw the old man approaching the desk.
Even in the early light, he could see that Mike Crankson was dressed well, his grooming excellent. He was as thin as a willow, his face long a
