This feeling remained
with him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the
house on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at
Mr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in
the ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the
thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked.
"Evidently nobody at home," said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs
again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had
seen on his first visit to the place.
"I thought I might find a friend of mine here," he said, after ordering a
drink. "Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeks
ago."
"I remember all right enough," said the bar-keeper. "He ain't here now."
"He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?"
"Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old
man Bud."
"What day was that?"
"Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the day
before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did."
It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. "And so
you haven't seen my friend since Monday?" he asked, insistently.
"That's what I said."
"And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?"
"That's what I said."
"When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?"
"You can search _me,_" was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all
knowledge of Mr.
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