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.”
Somehow I was not so sure; there were elements in the case, not known to Pinkerton—the fears of the captain, for example—that inclined me otherwise; and the idea that I had terrified Mr. Dickson into flight, though resting on so slender a foundation, clung obstinately in my mind.
“Shouldn't we see the list of passengers?” I asked.
“Dickson is such a blamed common name,” returned Jim; “and then, as like as not, he would change it.”
At this I had another intuition. A negative of a street scene, taken unconsciously when I was ab-
