“Why do you think so?”
“Bah.—Is it a thief send a challenge to a gentleman? All blarney and brag! I tell you the fellow’s a thief—he has got my watch, bad luck to him!—and he thinks the givin’ of the card a ready way to get out of the scrape: that’s the maning of it. We’ll never set eyes on him again, barrin’ we go after him.”
I was at first disposed to ridicule this logic; but, as time passed, I began to think there was some truth in it. We waited for breakfast being prepared, and then ate it in the most leisurely manner. As Casey had predicted, no one interrupted us at the meal; no visitor was announced—no card came in. I had already given rigorous orders to the clerk of the Hotel to forward any application on the instant.
The hour of ten arrived, but no communication from “Monsieur Jacques Despard.”
“Perhaps he is hunting up a friend?” I suggested. “We must give him time.”
Eleven o’clock.
“Let’s have a sherry cobbler!” proposed Casey; “we’ll have plenty of time to drink it.”
A couple of those magnificent “sherry cobblers,” for which the Saint Charles is world renowned, were immediately ordered up; and we passed the better half of an hour with the straw between our lips.
Twelve o’clock. Still no Despard—no friend—no challenge!
“I told you so,” said Casey, not triumphantly, but rather in a tone of despondence. “This card’s good for nothing,” he continued, taking the piece of pasteboard from his pocket, and holding it up before his eyes; “a regular sham, I suspect, like the fellow himself—a false name and address—you see it’s in pencil? Ah, mother o’ Moses! I’ll never see that watch again! Sure enough,” continued he, after a pause, “the name’s in print—he’s gone to the expense of having that engraved, or somebody has for him, which is more likely.—No!—he won’t come to time.”