“I haven’t seen the bag,” answered Hockley, and then his heart sank suddenly within him, for he remembered telling Markel of the secret compartment. What if the man from Baltimore had played him false?
“The bag must be in your room,” went on the hotel man stoutly. “I saw it carried in myself.”
“I’ll go and look,” returned the lank youth and almost ran back to the apartment. At first he failed to locate the valise but presently discovered it under the bed and hauled it forth.
“Robbed! Every cent gone!” The cry came straight from Hockley’s heart, and trembling from head to foot he sank into a chair, the picture of misery and despair.
“You are robbed?” asked the hotel keeper, who had followed him to the door.
“Yes, robbed! That man has taken all of my money.”
“But he was your friend!” ejaculated the other, in bewilderment.
“He pretended to be my friend,” answered the youth, bitterly. “I met him on the steamer from New York. He was a stranger up to that time.”
“And an American! It is very sad, señor. What will you do? Put the police on his track?”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m strapped—I haven’t a dollar to my name.”