“Look here!” said Ross. “This note—it’s not meant for me.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but a boy brought it aboard and told me to give it to you.”
“I tell you it’s not meant for me!” said Ross. “Take it back!”
“But it’s addressed to you, sir. Mr. James Ross. There’s no other Mr. Ross on board. The boy said it was urgent.”
“Take it back!” Ross repeated.
“I shouldn’t like to do that, sir,” said the steward, firmly. “I said I’d deliver it[Pg 442] to Mr. Ross. If you’re not—satisfied, sir, the purser might—”
“Oh, all right!” Ross interrupted, with a frown. “I haven’t time to bother now. I’ll keep it. But it’s a mistake. And somebody is going to regret it.”
II
A casual acquaintance in San Juan had recommended the Hotel Miston to Ross. “Nice, quiet little place,” he had said; “and you can get a really good cup of coffee there.”
So, when the United States customs officers had done with Ross, he secured a taxi, and told the chauffeur to drive him to this Hotel Miston. Not that he was in the least anxious for quiet, or had any desire for a cup of coffee; simply, he was in a hurry to get somewhere, anywhere, so that he could begin to live.