Lockwood got three days’ leave of absence from Craig with some difficulty, and only by alleging¹ business in Mobile of the utmost importance. The camp was busy; Craig did not want to let him go, and was much afraid that he would not come back. He valued his new woods rider; and he had remarked to the camp foreman that Lockwood was naturally cut out for a turpentine man, and he was going to hold on to him.  
By good luck the camp motor car was going over to Bay Minette, and Lockwood went there in it. The afternoon train was crowded, full of well-dressed people and the stir of life from which it seemed to him that he had been long exiled. He reached Mobile late in the day; the sunshine lay low on the palms of Government Street as he walked up from the Louisville & Nashville depot², and he knew that it was too late to make any investigations³ that day.
 
He lodged⁴ himself at the St. Andrew Hotel, and he sat that evening and smoked under the live oaks of Bienville Square, where the fountain splashed and gurgled. Only four blocks away stood the Maury Building, where the office of the “oil company” was said to be. In the morning he would find out if there was any oil company there, and, if not, the secretary of the board of trade would probably tell him all he wished to know.
 
He spent an impatient and restless night in a stifling⁵ hot hotel bedroom, and shortly after nine o’clock next morning he went up in the elevator of the Maury Building. The door of No. 24 was locked. There was no sign, no lettering on the ground glass, nothing but the uninforming number. Disappointed, he went down again, and sought information from the colored elevator boy, passing a quarter.
 
“Who’s in Number 24?”
 
“Numbah twenty-fo’? Dat’s Mr. Harding’s room, suh.”
 
“What time does he generally get down?”
 
“Why, he ain’t noways reg’lar, captain. Sometimes he don’t come down at all. Mostly he’s here ’fo’ noon.”
 
“I see. Is the office of the Pascagoula Oil Company in this building?”
 
“Dunno, sur. Ain’t never heard of ’em.”
 
Lockwood returned toward ten o’clock, finding the office still closed. It was not till past eleven that he at last found the door of No. 24 unlocked. He went in without ceremony. The room was quite unfurnished, but for a shabby flat desk and a couple of chairs. There were cigar stubs on the floor and a strong odor of stale smoke in the air. Behind the desk sat a well-dressed, heavy-faced man of middle age, smoking and reading the Mobile Register.
 
At the first glance Lockwood had a flash of memory from his past life that was like a shock; but it was vague, and he could not localize it. He stared in silence at the man, who had put down the paper and was looking at him.
 
“Are you—are you Mr. Harding?” Lockwood got out at last, trying to recover himself.
 
“Yes, sir. That’s my name,” replied the cigar smoker⁶, in distinctly Northern accents. And at that moment Lockwood’s memory found its mark.
 
He had a painful vision of his own real-estate office long ago, of McGibbon, of Maxwell sullenly⁷ stating the forced terms that meant ruin. Yes, it was Maxwell, it was Hanna’s old confederate, here in Mobile, here in the rooms of the “Pascagoula Oil Company;” and a great flood of illumination swept over Lockwood’s whole mind. It was through Mobile that the orders for the Powers’ reckless purchases had gone. Ten to one it was through this office, leaving a fifty-per-cent commission.
 
“I am,” Lockwood stated, “a piano salesman.”
 
“Well?” returned Harding, who was plainly far from recognizing his visitor.
 
“I’ve just come down from Rainbow Landing. I guess you know the Powers there?”
 
“I’ve heard of them.”
 
“They’re thinking of buying a piano. I called to see you. I believe the order will go through you, won’t it?”
 
“Who told you that?” Harding queried⁸ roughly.
 
“I guessed at it. There are all sorts of discounts and commissions, you know.”
 
The man picked up his cigar again, looked at it, hesitating visibly; then spoke⁹:
 
“I don’t know how you’ve got this idea. I’m not in the piano business. If you want to sell the Powers a piano, why go ahead. But this is a law office.”
 
“Oh, a law office!” said Lockwood, inwardly tickled¹⁰ at the word. “I thought you represented the Pascagoula Oil Company.”
 
Harding was visibly taken aback this time, and stared hard at his interlocutor.
 
“Never heard of it,” he returned.
 
“But,” Lockwood insisted, “this is the address given on their stationery¹¹ and literature.”
 
“Hum!” said Harding reflectively. His manner softened¹² a good deal. “Come to think of it, I do believe I’ve heard of ’em. I’ve only been in this office a couple of months. I guess they were the people here before me. But they’re gone. Yes, sir, they’ve moved. But I can find ’em for you. Ain’t they in the telephone book? Well, I can find out, anyhow.”
 
“I wish you would.”
 
“I certainly will,” said Harding, growing more genial¹³. “Are you located in town? At the St. Andrew? Good! I’ll telephone you just as soon as I find the address.”
 
They parted with great mutual¹⁴ cordiality, and Lockwood chuckled¹⁵ when he was on the street again. He chuckled with success; he was almost certain now; but to make absolutely certain he called at the office of the Pascagoula Land and Development Company, whose name he had accidentally heard that day.
 
Their offices were decorated with semitropical fruits and vegetables of every description, and he learned from the manager that oil was almost the sole natural product which their territory could not furnish. No oil had ever been discovered in that county; no boring had ever been done; and he could not be in error, for he had spent his life there.
 
It was merely what Lockwood had been certain of all along, but he felt that the matter was now clinched¹⁶. He planned to take the midnight train back to Bay Minette. He returned to his hotel, and, to his extreme surprise, was handed a note which Harding had sent over by messenger an hour before. He had located the Pascagoula Oil Company, Harding said; if Lockwood would call again in the Maury Building the next morning he would receive the information he wanted.
 
Of course Harding could very well have put the address in his note, but he evidently had planned some move, and Lockwood was sufficiently¹⁷ curious to wait over. He spent another night at the hotel, and it was with the expectation of an extremely curious and interesting conversation that he opened the door of office No. 24 the next morning. Harding was not there, but Hanna sat looking across the desk at his entrance.
 
Lockwood paused, bewildered, and then remembered the long-distance telephone. Undoubtedly¹⁸ Harding had sent a hurry call. Hanna had had just time to motor to the railway and catch the Mobile train.
 
The nerves thrilled down his spine¹⁹. It was going to come to a show-down at last. He felt the pressure of the little automatic at his hip—not that this office building was the place for pistols, with the click of typewriters, the coming and going of people in the adjoining rooms.
 
“Well!” said Hanna curtly²⁰. “Have a chair. So you’ve been looking into oil stocks.”
 
“I didn’t need to look much,” Lockwood returned, without sitting down. “I got my material for a report without much trouble.”
 
“And you’re fixing to make a report?”
 
“I surely am.”
 
“What do you expect to get out of it?”
 
“I get you, out of it, Hanna.”
 
“I see!” said the crook²¹ reflectively. “Well, that’s a good stunt²². Blackmail²³, hey? Ever since you came to Rainbow Landing I’ve been trying to figger out what you came for. ’Course I seen right away that you wasn’t there for the turpentine business. For a while I did think you were after the girl.”
 
“The girl is neither your affair nor mine,” said Lockwood.
 
“Well, I thought you might be sweet on her,” went on Hanna, looking keenly at his opponent’s face. “I was sweet on her myself, one time. Fact is, I could have her now, if I wanted her. But I’ve got other fish to fry.”
 
“I know you’re lying, Hanna!” Lock............