Trespassing

As I entered the Octagon, an expressionless, dapperly arrayed, little cipher of a man took my bags and slid them into a large locker in the entryway.  "You needn't have packed Mr. Tate." The slight little man, whose occupation in the Octagon was still unclear to me, continued to speak as he led me in: "There's nothing you brought that you'll need here.  You may collect your things as you exit for Massachusetts."

The Octagon!