We had no sooner arrived at the address than I had
other things to think of.
"Mr. Dickson? He's gone," said the landlady.
Where had he gone?
"I'm sure I can't tell you," she answered. "He was
quite a stranger to me."
"Did he express his baggage, ma'am?" asked Pinkerton.
"Hadn't any," was the reply. "He came last night, and
left again to-day with a satchel."
"When did he leave?" I inquired.
"It was about noon," replied the landlady. "Some one
rang up the telephone, and asked for him; and I reckon
he got some news, for he left right away, although his
rooms were taken by the week. He seemed considerable
put out: I reckon it was a death."
My heart sank; perhaps my idiotic jest had indeed
driven him away; and again I asked myself, "Why?" and
whirled for a moment in a vortex of untenable
hypotheses.
"What was he like, ma'am?" Pinkerton was asking, when I
returned to consciousness of my surroundings.
"A clean-shaved man," said the woman, and could be led
or driven into no more significant description.
"Pull up at the nearest drug-store," said Pinkerton to
the driver; and when there, the telephone was put in
operation, and the message sped to the Pacific Mail
Steamship Company's office--this was in the days before
Spreckels had arisen--"When does the next China steamer
touch at Honolulu?"
"The CITY OF PEKIN; she cast off the dock to-day,
at half-past one," came the reply.
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