CHAPTER VIII
At precisely six-thirty the porter returned. He announced his arrival in the peculiar manner previously described.
"De taxi is waitin' fo' yo', suh," he whispered.
"Good for you, George. Some snowstorm!"
"It sure is. Yo' can't see yo' hand befo' yo' face. I tol' de cabby t' take yo' straight t' de Watkins. On'y a sho't ways. De Watkins is fash'nable an' has a cobbyray—leastwise dey did befo' we got int' dis wah. Anyhow, dey'll give yo' all de comfo'ts o' home, an' I reckon dey's whut's achin' yo'."
"The nail on the head, George. But I mustn't miss this train. Remember that."
"I'll telephone, suh, ef dey makes up any time."
Passenger and porter hurried from the car to the station platform, crossed two tracks, passed through the waiting-room, thence to the street, which you could not see across for the curtain of driving snow. There was a line of taxis at the curb. It appeared that everybody had deserted the train.
Mathison knew that he had committed a blunder. There was even now a chance to run back; but stubbornly he faced the direction toward which he had set his foot. A blunder which, before the night was over, might become a catastrophe. Well, one thing was certain: they should never lay hands upon that manila envelope. He would deposit it in the hotel safe. Once that was done, they could come at him from all directions, if they cared to. He knew exactly every move he was going to make.
"Boss, I wish I was whah dese bags come f'm. Pineapples an' melons; oh, boy! Say, I ain't nachelly inquis'tive, but what's in dat cage?"