“Yes.”
Elliott, who did not particularly care for this reception, handed him Bennett’s note without another word. Henninger took it, and as he opened it leisurely Elliott was struck by the shape of the hand that held it. It was the hand of a pianist, a hand that had never worked, white, long-fingered, thin, but looking all nerves and muscles, as if strung with steel wires.
Henninger read the note, and examined it very closely. Then he glanced up at Elliott again with a slight smile, and held out his hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Elliott,” he said. “Sit down. What’s the matter with Bennett, and where is he?”
“He’s in the hospital in St. Louis. He got rather badly hurt—by a train.” There were half a dozen men within earshot, and Elliott thought it best to avoid details. “He was coming here to see you when it happened. It seems there’s something doing.”
He looked at Henninger, who returned the glance impenetrably.
“I’ve a message from him, but it’ll take some time to tell it. He also wished Mr. Hawke and Mr. Sullivan to hear it.”
Henninger turned to a man sitting close to him, who had been listening with all his ears, much to Elliott’s annoyance.
“This is Mr. Hawke.”
Hawke was a younger man than the Englishman, shorter, lighter, with a pleasant face and a light boyish moustache, like Elliott’s own. But there were the same hard lines about the mouth and nostrils, and the same level, aggressive gaze that Henninger possessed, so that at moments the unlike faces took on a curious similarity.