"Nothing, thank you," answered Bostwick, who started for his man, but halted for McCoppet to finish his business with his friend.
The man on whom Bostwick was gazing was a tall, slender, slightly stooped individual of perhaps forty-five, with a wonderful opal in his tie, from which he had derived his sobriquet. He was clean-shaved, big featured, and gifted with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes as lustreless as old buttons. He had never been seen without a cigar in his mouth, but the weed was never lighted.
Bostwick noted the carefulness of the man's attire, but gained no clue as to his calling. To avoid stupid staring he turned to watch a game of faro. Its fascinations were rapidly engrossing his attentions and luring him onward toward a reckless desire to tempt the goddess of chance, when he presently beheld McCoppet turn away from his man and saunter down the room.
A moment later Bostwick touched him on the shoulder.
"Beg pardon," he said, "Mr. McCoppet?"
McCoppet nodded. "My name."
"I'd like to introduce myself—J. Searle Bostwick," said the visitor. "I expected to arrive, as I wrote you——"
"Glad to meet you, Bostwick," interrupted the other, putting forth his hand. "Where are you putting up?"
"I haven't been able to find accommodations," answered Bostwick warmly. "It's an outrage the way this town is conducted. I thought perhaps——"
"I'll fix you all right," cut in McCoppet. "Are you ready for a talk? Nothing has waited for you to come."