There was rap on the door. Floyd opened it. A negro porter in uniform stood on the threshold.
“A man down-stairs wants to see you, Mr. Floyd,” he announced.
“Did he give his name?” Nelson asked.
“No, sir, he didn't.”
“He's an old, white-headed, dingy-faced fellow, ain't he?” Pole put in.
“Yes, sir,” answered the servant. “He looks like he's sick.”
“Well, you tell 'im to come up here,” said Pole, his face rigid, and his eyes gleaming triumphantly. When the negro had gone the two friends stood facing each other. “Nelson, my boy,” Pole said, tremulously, “I'm goin' to stroll outside down the hall. I'd bet a full-blooded Kentucky mare to a five-cent ginger-cake that you can run this whole rotten business up a tree if you will play your cards exactly right. Looky' here, Nelson, I've changed my mind about goin' out o' this room. Thar's entirely too much at stake to leave you with the reins to hold. You are too touchy on a certain delicate subject—you'll take a lot o' guff rather than ask questions. I wish you'd go out and let me meet that man fust.”
“I'll do anything you suggest, Pole,” Floyd declared, his face twitching sensitively.
“Well, you skoot into that empty room next door. I seed it open when I come up. Let me have the old codger to myself fer jest five minutes and then I'll turn 'im over to you. Hurry up! I don't want 'im to see you here.”
Floyd acted instantly, Pole heard the door of the adjoining room close just as the elevator stopped at the floor they were on.