“And I reckon we’d better telegraph to New York for staterooms,” Hawke suggested. “The east-bound steamers are always crowded at this time of year.”
They sent the despatch at once to Cook’s agency, asking simply to get to Liverpool or Southampton at the earliest date possible, expense being no consideration. At the same time Henninger both telegraphed and wrote to Bennett; and Elliott wired to the express company in Baltimore to have his trunk placed in storage for him till his return.
He had gone too far now upon the treasure trail to turn back, and indeed he would not have turned back if he could. It was really the romance of the adventure that fascinated him, though he did not think so. He told himself that it was a legitimate enterprise—he clung to the phrase—with a reasonable expectation of large profits. But in no manner could he see his way to write a complete explanation of his plans to Margaret; if he could have talked to her, he thought, it would be easy. He composed a letter to her that afternoon, however, in which he remarked negligently that he was going to India on a commission for other parties, with all expenses paid, and would probably not be back to America before autumn. At the end of the letter, forgetting his precaution, he hinted of a vast fortune which was scarcely out of reach,—an imprudence which he afterward regretted.
The party left Nashville that night, and, as the train rolled out of range of the last electric lights, Hawke drew a long breath.
“I did begin to think we were never going to get away from that town,” he sighed. “It looked like we were in pawn to the Hotel Orleans for the rest of our lives.”
Henninger smiled queerly. “Since we are fairly away, I don’t mind telling you,” he said, “that the manager and I discussed the matter last week. I explained that we were waiting for a large remittance that was overdue, but it would certainly be here in a day or two; we expected it by every mail. He gave it four days to arrive,—then we’d leave or be thrown out. Elliott turned up on the last day.”
CHAPTER VII. THE INDISCRETION OF HENNINGER
There was no time to spare in New York. The party went straight to an obscure but remarkably comfortable hotel near Washington Square, which Hawke recommended, and here they found Sullivan waiting for them. He had come up from Washington upon receiving his telegram, without knowing definitely what the projected enterprise was to be.
Sullivan was apparently a trifle older than Hawke, and unusually good-looking. He was smooth-shaven, rather thin-faced, and he exhibited in a marked degree that mingling of icy self-possession and electrical alacrity that has come to be a sort of typical New York manner. He was very accurately dressed, and wore a gold pince-nez. He looked straight at you with a penetrating and impenetrable eye; he spoke with an unusually distinct articulation. He seemed to be perpetually regarding the world with a faint smile that was compounded of superiority, indifference, and cynicism. In reality, his mental attitude was far from either cynicism or indifference, but it took some time to find this out. His general appearance vaguely suggested that he might be a very rapidly rising young lawyer, and Elliott discovered later that he had, in fact, been trained for the bar.
“And now, what’s this new scheme you’re working me into?” he inquired.