"And the man who was found?" The butler's voice was tense.
"It was not Hargreave. I met Orts but once, and as he wore a beard then, the captain's description did not tally with your recollection."
"Thank God! But what is this trap?"
"I propose to find out by it who is back of all this, who Hargreave's real enemies are."
Norton returned to his rooms, there to await the call from Grannis. He was sorry, but if Jones would not take him into his fullest confidence, he must hold himself to blame for any blunder he (Norton) made. Of course, he could readily understand Jones' angle of vision. He knew nothing of the general run of reporters; he had heard of them by rumor and distrusted them. He was not aware of the fact that the average reporter carries more secrets in his head than a prime minister. It was, then, up to him to set about to allay this distrust and gain the man's complete confidence.
Meanwhile that same morning a pretty young woman boarded the Orient and asked to be led to the captain. Her eyes were red; she had evidently been weeping. When the captain, susceptible like all sailors, saw her his promises to Norton took wings.
"This is Captain Hagan?" she asked, balling the handkerchief she held in her hand.
"Yes, miss. What can I do for you?" He put his hands embarrassedly into his pockets—and felt the crisp bills. But for that magic touch he would have forgotten his lines. He squared his shoulders.
"I have every assurance that the man you picked up at sea is my father. I am Florence Hargreave. Tell me everything."
The captain's very blundering deceived her. "And then he hustled down the gangplank and headed for that warehouse. He had a package which he was as tender of as if it had been dynamite."