Flood at once mounted the stairs and entered the chamber previously described. At that hour, however, the room presented a vivid contrast. It was like looking at the bare stage of a theater seen by daylight. There was no game going, no excited players, no glare of electric lights, no clicking of ivory chips, no signs of apprehension, no precautionary measures. For the door of the room stood open, and John Green, the humpback, was engaged in wiping the glassware on the sideboard.
Flood appeared pale and haggard, like one who has passed a sleepless night; yet he was neatly dressed, as was always the case, and carried himself with habitual dignity and composure.
“Good morning, John!” said he, with a sharp glance about the room.
The face of the humpback lighted perceptibly, yet a certain anxious look in his tired eye betrayed his secret misgivings.
“Good morning, Mr. Flood!” he replied, a bit huskily. “You’re down early, sir.”
“Somewhat. Who has been here this morning?”
“Only Nate Godard, sir. He looked in for a minute, then said he had an errand down-town.”
“No one else has called?”
“Not a soul, sir.”
Flood suppressed a sigh of relief; yet, despite the assurance given him, his eyes again swept sharply about the room.