Doubtless she would write to him from Panama. She would go to Chile with her father; doubtless she would return. But Lang had a feeling that, even if he met her in the future, this episode was ended, closed like a magic ring that could never be reopened.
He must leave Mobile. He was a poor man now and must make his living. The prospect looked dreary. He had not realized how the green glow of the Chilean stones had dazzled him. He had been thinking of late like a millionaire, and dimes and dollars were now his standard. He was no longer an adventurer.
He left his hotel and moved to an inexpensive boarding house. He called on some of the local physicians, made inquiries about professional prospects. The idea of work in the piney woods did not attract him now. He was restless; he thought of going West. Though he quailed at the idea of handling a scalpel, he could practice medicine well enough in one of the new towns in Texas, he thought.
No word came from Eva. He still lingered in Mobile, unable to come to a decision. More than a week had passed when he received a cablegram from Panama.
Will you come to Panama first possible steamer, at my expense? Important.
Edward Morrison.
CHAPTER X
A GENEROUS OFFER
Lang arrived at Panama, hot and sticky and full of mixed expectations. He had not delayed a day; he had taken the first steamer for Colon, with the remaining two thousand dollars from Yuma Oil belted round his waist. From Colon he had traveled by the Isthmus Railway and his mind was still dazed with heat and hurry, and the unfamiliar Spanish talk, and the wild scenery of the Isthmus and the glimpses of the great engineering work that seemed the sole interest in everybody’s mind. And he scarcely ventured to foresee what he might be going to meet.
He had not the slightest idea how to find Morrison, but he was told that he could find anything at the Hotel Tivoli. Taking a taxi at the landing stage therefore, he was driven to this ornate establishment, where he found that Morrison’s name was indeed known. He was not at the hotel, but at Mrs. Leeman’s boarding house, which seemed to be also a well-known institution. Lang engaged a room, had his baggage sent for, and requisitioned the Ford again.
It was half an hour’s drive, by what seemed devious ways. He felt oddly, nervously in suspense. His lips were dry as the car stopped in front of a huge, rambling bungalow, screened on all sides by a vast veranda, heavy with vines and gay with great red blossoms.
He went up the walk. A barefooted Jamaican negro was pottering about some duties at the steps, and he paused to make inquiries. He hardly understood the queer, clipped half-English accent of the servant, but just then a white-dressed figure came quickly around the corner of the house, on the dim veranda. It was Eva.