know who owns the controlling interest in this hotel? Surely you
must know or can guess. Think a moment. It's somebody you met over
there and have reason to remember."

A sound escaped, from the throat of Colonel Gray--not a cry, but
rather a gasp of amazement, or of rage.

"Aha!" Haviland grinned in triumph. "I thought--"

His guest leaned forward over the desk, with face twitching.
Passion had driven the blood from it, and his whole expression was
one of such hatred, such fury, the metamorphosis was so startling,
that the hotel man stiffened in his chair and stared upward in
sudden amazement.

"_Nelson!_" Gray ejaculated. "Nelson! By God! So! He's _here_!"

During the moment that Haviland sat petrified, Gray turned his
head slowly, his blazing eyes searched the office as if expecting
to discover a presence concealed somewhere; they returned to the
hotel man's face, and he inquired:

"Well, where is he?"

Haviland stirred. "I don't know what you're talking about. Who's
Nelson?" After a second he exclaimed: "Good Lord! I thought I had
a pleasant surprise for you, and I was gracefully leading up to
it, but--I must have jazzed it all up. I was going to tell you
that the hotel and everything in it is yours."