“Sorry I can’t help you, gentlemen,” responded the consul. “If I get any news, I’ll let you know. You don’t happen to have brought out any American newspapers, do you—Chicago ones, for choice?”
Elliott was devoid of these luxuries, and Sevier followed him out to the street, where the ricksha was still waiting.
“Is that your perambulator?” inquired the Alabaman. “Let’s walk a little. The streets aren’t so crowded here.”
“It’s undignified for a white man to walk in this country, but I’ll make my ricksha man follow me,” said Elliott. “Besides, I couldn’t find my way back to the hotel without him.”
They walked for several minutes in silence down the side of the street that was shaded by tall buildings of European architecture.
“Were you ever at a New Orleans Mardi Gras? Hanged if this town doesn’t remind me of it!” Sevier suddenly broke silence. “By the way, I didn’t know that you were interested in the Clara McClay.”
“I’m not,” said Elliott, on the defensive. “I was simply making inquiries on behalf of other people, to get some details about her loss. You seem to have more interest than that in her yourself.”
“Oh, my interest is a purely business one,” replied Sevier, lightly. “I know her owners pretty well, and they wired me from Philadelphia to find out something about her. I found the cablegram waiting for me when I got here. Funny thing that the mate should disappear that way. Something crooked, eh?”
“Possibly. Queer things happen on the high seas. It looks as if he were afraid of something.”
“Or after something. I’ve heard of ships being run ashore for insurance.”