On the corner of the street,
and directly opposite from where the detective stood, was a low,
dingy-looking frame building, with the name of Union House painted
across the front.
"Here we are," said Manning to himself, "and we will soon ascertain if
Mr. King is about."
So saying he crossed the street and entered the office or waiting-room
of the hostelry. An old settee, a half-dozen or more well-whittled
wooden arm-chairs, a rusty stove set in a square box filled with
saw-dust, were about all the movable furniture which the room contained.
In the corner, however, was a short counter behind which, arranged on
long rows of hooks, were suspended a number of hats, caps and coats of a
decidedly miscellaneous character.
An ancient-looking register, filled with blots and hieroglyphics, lay
upon the counter, and as the room was empty, Manning walked toward the
open volume and examined the names inscribed thereon. Under the date of
the preceding evening, he found the name he was looking for, and a
cabalistic sign on the margin designated that he had lodged there the
night before and indicated that he might still be in the house.
While he was thus standing, a frowsy-headed young man, whose face was
still shining from the severe friction of a coarse roller-towel, which
hung behind the door, entered the room, and saluting the detective
familiarly, proceeded to comb his hair before a cracked mirror that hung
behind the desk.
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