“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 will go to Key West at any rate. There may be some way to cross the channel from there.”
The detective is not in cheerful spirits as he boards the steamer, but he feels a shade of satisfaction while noting Mrs. Harding and her cavalier ascend the gang-plank just before the signal for departure is given.
“We will have a little tete-a-tete by and by, my lady,” he murmurs. But, greatly to the detective’s disappointment, Mrs. Harding does not emerge from her stateroom until the steamer has sighted the yellow stretch of sand that marks the entrance to the harbor of Key West.
“Well, we shall either be fellow-voyagers again, or ‘on a tropical isle we’ll sit and smile,’” reflects Barker, philosophically.
Determined that he will not lose sight of the charming Mrs. Harding again, Barker loiters about the steamer until she trips across the gang-plank, the last passenger to disembark. Her traveling companion has preceded her nearly half an hour, and Barker wonders again if they have parted company. Their baggage, he observes, is still on the pier, and even as Mrs. Harding steps ashore Barker sees the Spaniard coming rapidly toward her. He conducts her to the opposite side of the wharf, where is moored a neat little steam launch, manned by a number of sailors in the uniform of the Spanish navy. The baggage upon which Barker’s watchful eyes are fixed is quickly conveyed aboard the launch, Mrs. Harding follows, still escorted by the military-appearing stranger, and a moment later the little craft shoots out from the dock and makes for a man-of-war lying at anchor in the harbor and flying the Spanish colors.
Mr. Barker’s last opportunity for a tete-a-tete with “my lady” has vanished.
The detective watches the launch until it vanishes behind the bow of the warship, but words fail utterly to express his feelings. He mechanically picks up his grip and suffers himself to be conducted by an enterprising Bahaman to the American hotel, picturesquely surrounded by tropical shrubs and plants.
“Well, Barker,” the detective communes with himself, “it looks decidedly as if my lady possessed a slight advantage in having a man-of-war at her call. But with all that fleet of boats in the harbor it does seem that there should be one bound for Cuba. How to hit that particular one is the question.”