“No.”
Carter sat down in a chair near the door of that room, and feigned intoxication.
No one paid any attention to him.
The minutes passed.
Then the door of the room opened, and a man entered. He was dressed in black. His coat was tightly buttoned up, so as nearly to hide the white handkerchief that encompassed his scrawny throat. His hair—and it was not very luxuriant—was of a foxy color, and combed straight down, giving the observer the idea that it had been operated on by the prison barber. Pitted pockmarks covered his colorless, lean face.
At a glance the detective recognized Brockey Gann.
The rascal cast his restless eyes around the room, as if he were in fear of some danger, and, thus shuffling up to the bar, he asked of Samson, in a hoarse tone of voice:
“Have you seen him?”
“He’s waiting inside,” Samson replied, pointing toward the back room with his thumb.
Brockey, as he passed Carter, looked at him.