Nathaniel offered his hand, and it was a moment before the scowling man gave him a brief handshake. “Horatio Jankowski. Look, I’m sorry if this is your table. A man from the steamboat company told me I was picked for something.”

He stood, but Nathaniel gestured him down. “Sit, sit. There’s no mistake. I actually wanted the chance to speak with you. I remember seeing you at the president’s speech earlier today.”

A look of anger flashed, but it was quickly masked. “That’s right.”

“What did you think of it?”

Jankowski shrugged.

“I only ask because I’m curious. Have you ever heard the president speak before?”

Again, Jankowski shrugged, but his lips thinned and his brow lowered. It was the start of a fighting stance. Nathaniel countered with a deliberately calming expression.

“My job is to keep an eye on events as the president travels,” he said. “What is it you do for a living?”

“Machinist,” Jankowski said tersely. “I keep the spinning frames operating at a cotton mill up in Jersey City.”

“You must have seen a world of change in the past few years,” Nathaniel said in a sympathetic tone. “How did you learn that trade?”

Up close, Jankowski was older than Nathaniel originally assumed. He had to be at least seventy, and that was good. Violence rarely simmered in a man this old.

Mr. Jankowski pulled his bag onto the table, pointing to the closing mechanism. “See that clasp? I made it myself. I’ve always had a knack for metalwork. It’s good work, and it has value. I don’t care what those people at the mill say.”

“I can see that,” Nathaniel said, pretending to admire the clasp but noting the size and heft of the bag. It could hold a pistol, but not a rifle. He catalogued every detail of Jankowski’s appearance, noting the worn heels on his boots and the clean fingernails. It had been a while since this man had his hands on mechanical equipment. There was something off about Mr. Jankowski, and Nathaniel needed to keep asking open-ended questions.

“What was your business in Pensacola?” he asked in his most casual voice.

It didn’t work. Jankowski’s jaw tensed, and his hands fisted around the handle of his bag. “I came to hear that boy speak,” he said angrily.

“What boy?”

“The president,” Jankowski said. “He may be calling himself William McKinley, but that’s not his real name. No, sir.”

Nathaniel stilled, noting beads of perspiration on Mr. Jankowski’s forehead. It wasn’t hot in here, but Jankowski was getting agitated.

“What’s his real name?” Nathaniel asked calmly.

Instead of answering, Jankowski unlocked the clasp on his bag. A moment later he held a small folding case, which he opened to reveal a daguerreotype of a young man in a soldier’s uniform. The image was old and faded, the once finely embossed leather worn smooth from wear.