Lang felt no call to share his knowledge, such as it was, nor his shadowy theories.
“Clean out of his head, apparently,” he replied. “He muttered about the time of day—said it was nine o’clock and six and noon at his house in the north of Persia. And something about a negro. Has he ever been in Persia?”
Carroll seemed to reflect, and observed Lang’s face with a sidelong glance.
“Persia was Rockett’s post office,” he said at last. “It’s a country store west of Gulfport and about a mile north of the coast road. He lived about two miles north of Persia. We went up the bayou in the launch on our visit; it took us within a hundred yards of his house.”
“A shack and a truck farm, you said?” remarked Lang, trying to look indifferent to this priceless information.
“A little bungalow, rather neat, painted brown with green trimmings. It had an iron fence in front and two magnolia trees at the gate, and a grove of small orange trees at one side. There was a little garage with a Ford in it, too. We left it there.”
“I suppose all that will be sold for the benefit of the creditors,” said Lang.
“I suppose so, if they ever discover that Rockett was the truck farmer. It may be a long time before it’s noticed that the house is deserted. Few people come that way, and the next house is a mile or more away.”
Lang was afraid to fish for more information lest he rouse Carroll’s suspicion. They continued to chat at random, of the Cavite, of her crew, of the failure of their whole scheme, to which Carroll now seemed entirely resigned. They sighted land about the middle of the afternoon, and it was toward sunset when the good sea Samaritans put them ashore on the lumber wharves at Gulfport, refusing any suggestion of reward.
In fact, Lang had only fifteen dollars, which happened by luck to be in his trousers pocket, and he urgently needed to buy a shirt, collar, hat and footwear, though the sailors had given him a worn-out pair of tennis shoes. He walked with Carroll from the water front up to the main street, and there they halted.