“In twenty minutes. I must have a wash first, and something to eat. Be here long?”
“I go North at six o’clock.”
“All right, I’ll look sharp, then; we’ll have time.”
In twenty minutes he appeared at Paul’s door. The door was open, revealing the usual bachelor’s room, with one window, a narrow bed, a washstand, one chair, a red velvet sofa, with a table before it; the bed was draped in white mosquito netting; the open window looked down upon a garden, where were half a dozen negro nurses with their charges—pretty little white children, overdressed, and chattering in the sweet voices of South Carolina.
“Curious that I should have run against you here, when this very moment I am on my way to hunt you up,” said Knox, trying first the chair, and then the sofa. “I landed twenty-four hours ago in New York; been off on a long yachting excursion; started immediately after your brother’s death,—perhaps Miss Abercrombie told you? Whole thing entirely unexpected; had to decide in ten minutes, and go on board in an hour, or lose the chance; big salary, expenses paid; couldn’t afford to lose it. I’d have written before starting, if it had been possible; but it wasn’t. And after I was once off, my eyes gave way suddenly, and I had to give them a rest. It wasn’t a thing to write, anyway; it was a thing to tell. There was nothing to be done in any case, and such kind of news will keep; so I decided that as soon as I landed, I’d come down here and find out about you and Miss Abercrombie; then I was going up to Port aux Pins—or wherever you were—to see you.”
“I suppose you can tell me—in three words—what all this is about,” said Paul, who had not seated himself.
“Yes, easy. What do you suppose was the cause of your brother’s death?”
“Pistol-shot,” Paul answered, curtly.
“No, that was over, I had cured him of that; I telegraphed you that the wound wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t. No, sir; he died of a spree—of a series of ’em.”
Paul sat down.