CHAPTER V. THE ACE OF DIAMONDS
Elliott reached Nashville in two days, being lucky enough to catch a fast freight-train which carried him half the distance in a single night. For the last twenty miles he travelled on a passenger-train, paying his fare, to preclude the danger of arrest as he came into the great railway yards, and the consciousness of safety in the face of the police seemed to him almost an odd and unfamiliar sensation.
It was early in the forenoon when he walked up the incline of the ill-paved street that reminded him of St. Joseph. He inquired for the Arcadia saloon; he found it on Cherry Street, and within the swing-doors it was cool and dusky, sparkling with glass and marble, and vibrating with electric fans. Two or three prosperous-looking Southerners were sipping through straws from glasses crowned with green leaves and crushed fruit, but Elliott contented himself with a glass of beer, and asked the bartender if he knew Mr. Henninger, or where he was to be found.
“Sure,” said the mixer of drinks. “He’s been stoppin’ at the Hotel Orleans, and I reckon you’ll find him there now. If he ain’t there no more, ask for Mr. Hawke, and he’ll likely know something about him.”
Hawke was one of the names Bennett had mentioned, and this small circumstance, or perhaps it was the beer, raised Elliott’s hopes. He finished his glass, and went straight to the Hotel Orleans, which was three blocks away.
The great lobby was full of leather-covered sofas and easy-chairs, and floored with handsome mosaic, and perhaps a score of men were smoking or reading newspapers. It was clearly a good hotel, and Bennett had said that his friends would be at the best hotel in town. Elliott looked over the register, and, not immediately finding the names he sought, he spoke to the clerk, who did not take the trouble to conceal his contempt of Elliott’s disreputable appearance.
“Yes,” he said, curtly. “That’s Mr. Henninger sitting by the window, in the gray suit.”
Elliott walked over to the man indicated. He was young, probably not over thirty-five, dark-faced, strong-featured, with a suspicion of military severity and exactitude. His costume of hard gray tweed had evidently come from the hands of a first-rate tailor, and he was smoking a cigar which he never removed from his teeth, and looking through the great window with an air of reserved boredom. Elliott, as he approached, felt himself suddenly covered with a glance that was like the muzzle of a revolver.
“Mr. Henninger?” he inquired, pausing.
The man in gray looked him over for another instant, and then replied, frigidly: