It struck Mr. Tarbox that he might obtain some information of those whom he sought by inquiring of the travelers who came daily to the hotel, whether they had met with such a party. No diffidence held him back from questioning closely all who came.
Some treated him with hauteur, and tried to abash him by impressing him with the unwarrantable liberty he was taking in intruding himself upon their notice.
In general, however, these were snobs, of some wealth, but doubtful social position, who felt it necessary to assert themselves upon all occasions.
But Mr. Tarbox was not one to be daunted by coldness, or abashed by a repellant manner. He persisted in his questions until he learned what he wanted. But his questions were without a satisfactory answer until one day he saw a gentleman and his son, whom by their appearance he took to be fellow-countrymen. They were, in fact, Henry Abercrombie and his father, fresh from the scene of the accident.
Mr. Tarbox introduced himself and propounded his question.
Father and son exchanged a look of sadness.
"He means poor Frank, father," said Henry.
"Poor Frank!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. "What makes you say that?"
"Were you a friend of the boy?" asked Mr. Abercrombie.