CHAPTER VI.
NICK SHOWS HIS HAND.
It was after eleven o’clock when Nick Carter, in immaculate evening dress, sauntered alone into the fashionable restaurant. He had found certain persons whom he had been seeking, more of them than he had been expecting to find. He had discovered them in a box at the opera, and had followed them in a taxicab after the curtain had fallen upon Leonora’s tragic death.
The scene over which Nick cast a seemingly indifferent eye was a brilliant one. The glare of light, the throng of well-dressed men, of beautiful women in gorgeous attire and radiant with jewels, the clink of fragile glasses, the rippling laughter of pretty girls, the murmur of cultivated voices, all mingled with the fascinating strains of orchestral music—Nick Carter took it all in with a few swift glances while the head waiter approached to conduct him to a seat.
“There is a vacant table near that at which Senator Barclay and his friends are seated,” Nick quietly remarked, deftly slipping a generous tip into the waiter’s hand.
The crisp bank note was felt and properly appreciated.
“Certainly, sir. This way, sir.”
“Forget that I suggested it,” Nick added.
“My mind is a blank, sir.”
“A waiter who knows his business,” thought Nick.
He followed him to a small table near one of the lace-draped windows.