Nick went up the stairs and stopped in front of a small, dingy office, presided over by a slatternly woman of middle age.
"Is Misto Mannion stayin' heah?" he asked, with an engaging smile.
"Room eighteen, this flo'." was the short answer.
"Ah'm gretly ableeged, Mistis. Ah'll fine hit, mahse'f. Don' yo' stir you' bones on mah 'count." As the woman made no effort to move, but simply stared at him, the false negro's courtesy seemed not to have been required.
Before the room, whose windows overlooked the back yard, Nick stopped, for inside a man was singing softly to himself. The voice was a light tenor and was pleasing to the ear.
"The fellow is in happy spirits, apparently," thought the detective. "Hope I won't agitate him too much."
He knocked gently and presently the door opened and a tall, rather handsome young man, with dark face, red, womanish lips, cold blue eyes set close together, and a low forehead confronted him. Women might be deceived in respect to his character. Men of sense would not be likely to trust him. He was dressed in the height of fashion and seemed, entirely at his ease.
His eyes, in cool inquiry, sought the face of the black-faced caller, whose form trembled slightly.
"Well," he said curtly, "what can I do for you?"
"Ise—Ise de pusson yo' talked to tudder day down by de w'arf, sah," said Nick humbly. "Yo' gimme dat bank-bill fo' ter git changed, sah. Don' yo' 'member dat perceedin'?"