He spent an impatient and restless night in a stifling hot hotel bedroom, and shortly after nine o’clock next morning he went up in the elevator of the Maury Building. The door of No. 24 was locked. There was no sign, no lettering on the ground glass, nothing but the uninforming number. Disappointed, he went down again, and sought information from the colored elevator boy, passing a quarter.
“Who’s in Number 24?”
“Numbah twenty-fo’? Dat’s Mr. Harding’s room, suh.”
“What time does he generally get down?”
“Why, he ain’t noways reg’lar, captain. Sometimes he don’t come down at all. Mostly he’s here ’fo’ noon.”
“I see. Is the office of the Pascagoula Oil Company in this building?”
“Dunno, sur. Ain’t never heard of ’em.”
Lockwood returned toward ten o’clock, finding the office still closed. It was not till past eleven that he at last found the door of No. 24 unlocked. He went in without ceremony. The room was quite unfurnished, but for a shabby flat desk and a couple of chairs. There were cigar stubs on the floor and a strong odor of stale smoke in the air. Behind the desk sat a well-dressed, heavy-faced man of middle age, smoking and reading the Mobile Register.
At the first glance Lockwood had a flash of memory from his past life that was like a shock; but it was vague, and he could not localize it. He stared in silence at the man, who had put down the paper and was looking at him.
“Are you—are you Mr. Harding?” Lockwood got out at last, trying to recover himself.