He read down the page, recognizing several names of passengers on board the Old Province. He found what he expected—“John A. Belmont, N. Y. C.,” and, lo and behold! beneath it, in the same hand, “W. Jennison, N. Y. C.” A rogue’s device, truly!
“Is this Mr. Belmont—or is Mr. Jennison in the house?” He put the question nervously.
“Neither of ’em. Mr. Jennison I know quite well. I didn’t see the other gentleman with him. They had adjoining rooms. They left the day Mr. Marcy and Mr. Saxton got here. The room was vacant. I put Mr. Marcy in it, I remember.”
“Can you give me their addresses, sir?” Philip inquired, more courageously.
“H’m! Mr. Belmont’s left no directions, nor Mr. Jennison either. I don’t find any.” He laid the memorandum-book down; he was becoming impatient.
“I’d like to see the proprietor of the hotel,” said Philip. “My friend and I must make some plans about stopping here or going to New York.”
“I am the proprietor,” returned the elderly man. “My name is Banger. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk a little while with you, somewhere else than here—where we won’t be overheard, please. It won’t take long.”
Mr. Banger suspected some confession of a school-boy lark or a runaway, shortness of funds for hotel bills, or some appeal to his kindness of that sort. He had had boys make them before. But he called to a young man coming into the office, “Here, Joe; I’ve business with these gentlemen. Look after things till I get through,” and led Philip toward a little room across the hall. Gerald would have accompanied them, but Touchtone prevented it. It might interfere with what details he must disclose. Gerald sat down in the office with his back to Joe, and stared at the wall with eyes full of tears, and with a heavy heart that Touchtone hoped he could soon lighten.