steamer for Key West does not sail until 3 o'clock the following afternoon, the detective retires in the confident belief that he has overtaken Mrs. Harding at least.
Barker is right in his surmise. He has nearly finished his breakfast the next morning, when the striking figure of Mrs. Harding enters the dining-room and is escorted by the obsequious waiter to the table at which the detective is seated. The latter lingers long over his coffee and muffins, while he improves the opportunity of studying his vis-a-vis.
"Handsome as a queen," is his conclusion, as the glorious black eyes glance idly into his. But there is a tinge of melancholy in her face, a preoccupation in her manner, that does not escape the observation of the detective, and at which he wonders.
"It cannot be that the military chap has given her the go-by," he thinks.
He has not, for at this moment the soldierly form of the Spaniard enters the room and he is directed to a seat beside Mrs. Harding.
"Nothing very lover-like in their greeting," ruminates Barker, as the two exchange salutations. "Since they are to be fellow-passengers on the boat to Key West and Havana I will postpone my interview until then." Barker strolls out upon the hotel veranda.
"How long does it take to run to Havana?" he inquires, casually, of the porter.
"About a ten hours' sail from Key West, when the steamers are running," he is told.
"When the steamers are running? Are they not running now?"
"No, sir; they run only as far as Key West now, since the blockade was declared."
Barker paces slowly up and down the veranda.
"Well, I must be hoodooed," he mutters; "that does settle it. Here I've raced 1,700 miles to head off my game, only to be foiled by a measly blockade. I can't stand it to charter a ship, and it looks mightily as if Cyrus Felton was going to slip through my hands. But how are my lady and the Spanish-looking chap to get there? I
