As Fox had succeeded in "locating" his man, he returned to his boarding-house, wrote out his report and posted it, and after carelessly dropping into the restaurant under Washington Hall, where he took a dish of ice-cream and found means to inform Bristol of the latest development, he returned and retired for the night well satisfied with his day's work, and fully resolved to be on hand for Saturday's sport at Charlotte.
I received Fox's report the next noon, and not a half-hour afterwards the splendid Harcout came rushing in.
"Pinkerton, Pinkerton," he exclaimed excitedly, "here's something which we must attend to at once—at once, mind you, or—bless my soul! I'm afraid I left it at the St. Nicholas. How could I be so careless!"
Harcout grew red in the face and plunged into all his pockets wildly, utterly regardless of his exquisite make-up, until quite exhausted.
"Why, Harcout, you're excited. Tell me what's the matter, my man," said I, reassuringly.
"Matter? matter? everything's the matter. Here's something which should be acted upon at once, and like an ass I've left it at the hotel. I'll go back and get it immediately."
"Get what?" I asked him.
"Get a letter that I just received from Lyon. He's there all by himself, and they will draw him into some terrible confession. But I—I must get the letter," and Harcout grabbed his hat and gloves and started.
"Hold on, Harcout," I called to him, "what is that you have in your hand?"