Ericksen took from the table a paper bearing a few lines of writing, on which he had been engaged when Dumont entered, and passed it to his friend. The latter scrutinised the writing, and chuckled softly.
"Oh! For the lady, eh? Ah, what a head you have! It is wasted upon you, my friend. It should have gone with such intelligence as mine."
"You lay off them personal remarks, Frenchy," snapped Ericksen suddenly.
"Aye, matey," retorted the other with mocking air. "Well? What next?"
"You telephone me here right after noon mess. I'll be able to give you Dennis' afternoon programme then. You've got to stop him from taking that train to-morrow night—an' stop him hard! Don't forget to take all his money, either—strip him to the bone."
Dumont shrugged. "What would you? Here in Chicago are the police, and I like them not. It is not as if we were aboard the Pelican, my friend."
"Oh, don't kill him," snapped Ericksen impatiently. "Merely a good stiff jolt that will leave him on his back a few days. And do it at the last minute, too. 'Take no chances, Boatswain,' says the Skipper, 'and if there's any wind in sight, get your top-canvas down.' So do it at the last minute, and then get the train. Have a taxi waiting."
"All right." Dumont straightened up. "Let's go see a picture-show, eh?"
Ericksen assented with a grunt.
Promptly at one o'clock on Monday, Boatswain Joe was waiting in the lobby of the Royton restaurant, when Tom Dennis and Florence were deposited by the elevator. With a cheerful grin on his freckled features, Ericksen approached them.