He found her looking worried, and she admitted that she had slept little. She had dark lines under her eyes, and her beauty was in eclipse. He made her go out with him. They went first to the bank, where she completed the formalities of taking over the account; and then on a motor run for ten miles down the bay road. She had received several more replies from the Gulf ports—negative, all of them; but she persisted in an appearance of optimism.
“You’re wonderfully good to me,” she said gratefully, as they returned to the city. “You mustn’t take up all your time with my affairs. You’ve your own concerns—your own plans to make.”
“My concerns, my plans are all for you,” he almost answered, but he restrained himself wisely.
“I haven’t any,” he said. “I’m not a physician any more. I’m an adventurer, a chevalier of industry, a burglar, a stock gambler, a treasure hunter—all my boyish dreams come to life.”
She smiled. “How about your medical practice up in the woods?”
He had almost forgotten it. That scheme now seemed utterly remote and impracticable, tame and unalluring besides. But her words reminded him sharply that life was life, after all, and that he would have to think of unalluring and practical matters. Much depended on Carroll, and again he regretted having been so crudely unconciliatory with that young man.
He fully expected to hear from Carroll that night, but no word came. He did not want to make advances again. He waited till the next morning. Again he took Eva out, once for a long walk, then across to Fairhope on the afternoon boat. She looked more depressed than ever, did not respond to his cheerfulness, and he foresaw the moment when hope would die.
That evening he took the step of telephoning to the Hotel St. Andrew, and was told that Carroll had departed the day before, leaving no address.
Violently Lang cursed his own clumsiness. Carroll was frightened off, with his indispensable documents. For a moment Lang pictured him starting immediately for South America; but this could hardly be, unless, with Louie’s assistance, he had managed to commit some lucrative crime. But he had passed out of sight, probably forever, and Lang felt deeply thankful that he had told Eva nothing of his high-flown projects, now made impossible.
Lang put in a bad night himself, but the morning mail brought a letter. It was a brief note from Carroll, posted in New Orleans, and with no address but the general delivery. Lang breathed more easily as he glanced over it.