"Not the least," said Jim. "No time. Much rather stand. This is business, Mr. Bellairs. This morning, as you know, I bought the wreck, Flying Scud."
The lawyer nodded.
"And bought her," pursued my friend, "at a figure out of all proportion to the cargo and the circumstances, as they appeared?"
"And now you think better of it, and would like to be off with your bargain? I have been figuring upon this," returned the lawyer. "My client, I will not hide from you, was displeased with me for putting her so high. I think we were both too heated, Mr. Pinkerton: rivalry--the spirit of competition. But I will be quite frank--I know when I am dealing with gentlemen --and I am almost certain, if you leave the matter in my hands, my client would relieve you of the bargain, so as you would lose"--he consulted our faces with gimlet-eyed calculation--"nothing," he added shrilly.
And here Pinkerton amazed me.
"That's a little too thin," said he. "I have the wreck. I know there's boodle in her, and I mean to keep her. What I want is some points which may save me needless expense, and which I'm prepared to pay for, money down. The thing for you to consider is just this: am I to deal with you or direct with your principal? If you are prepared to give me the facts right off, why, name your figure. Only one thing!" added Jim, holding a finger up, "when I say 'money down,' I mean bills payable when the ship returns, and if the information proves reliable. I don't buy pigs in pokes."
I had seen the lawyer's face light up for a moment, and then, at the sound of Jim's proviso, miserably fade. "I guess you know more about this wreck than I do, Mr. Pinkerton," said he. "I only know that I was told to buy the thing, and tried, and couldn't."
"What I like about you, Mr. Bellairs, is that you waste no time," said Jim. "Now then, your client's name and address."
"On consideration," replied the lawyer, with indescribable furtivity, "I cannot see that I am entitled to communicate my client's name. I will sound him for you with pleasure, if you care to instruct me; but I cannot see that I can give you his address."
"Very well," said Jim, and put his hat on. "Rather a strong step, isn't it?" (Between every sentence was a clear pause.) "Not think better of it? Well, come--call it a dollar?"
"Mr. Pinkerton, sir!" exclaimed the offended attorney; and, indeed, I myself was almost afraid that Jim had mistaken his man and gone too far.
"No present use for a dollar?" says Jim. "Well, look here, Mr.
Bellairs: we're both busy men, and I'll go to my outside figure with you right away--"
"Stop this, Pinkerton," I broke in. "I know the address: 924 Mission Street."
I do not know whether Pinkerton or Bellairs was the more taken aback.
"Why in snakes didn't you say so, Loudon?" cried my friend.
"You didn't ask for it before," said I, colouring to my temples under his troubled eyes.
It was Bellairs who broke silence, kindly supplying me with all that I had yet to learn. "Since you know Mr. Dickson's address," said he, plainly burning to be rid of us, "I suppose I need detain you no longer."
I do not know how Pinkerton felt, but I had death in my soul as we came down the outside stair, from the den of this blotched spider. My whole being was strung, waiting for Jim's first question, and prepared to blurt out, I believe, almost with tears, a full avowal. But my friend asked nothing.
"We must hack it," said he, tearing off in the direction of the nearest stand. "No time to be lost. You saw how I changed ground. No use in paying the shyster's commission."
Again I expected a reference to my suppression; again I was disappointed. It was plain Jim feared the subject, and I felt I almost hated him for that fear. At last, when we were already in the hack and driving towards Mission Street, I could bear my suspense no longer.
"You do not ask me about that address," said I.
"No," said he, quickly and timidly. "What was it? I would like to know."
The note of timidity offended me like a buffet; my temper rose as hot as mustard. "I must request you do not ask me," said I.
"It is a matter I cannot explain."
The moment the foolish words were said, that moment I would have given worlds to recall them: how much more, when Pinkerton, patting my hand, replied: "All right, dear boy; not another word; that's all done. I'm convinced it's perfectly right." To return upon the subject was beyond my courage; but I vowed inwardly that I should do my utmost in the future for this mad speculation, and that I would cut myself in pieces before Jim should lose one dollar.
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.
"It's a clear case of bolt," said Jim. "He's skipped, or my name's not Pinkerton. He's gone to head us off at Midway Island."
