“Not at any. A Wheeling boat was just going out as we came to the landing; they went by her. They were going East.”
De Hauteroche and I slipped out of our saddles, and walked, or rather trotted into the hotel. The intelligence was terrible, and for the moment unmanned us both. Fortune appeared to be on the side of villainy.
Story 2, Chapter XVIII.
The Denouement.
Refreshed by a draught of wine, I proceeded to prosecute our inquiry. I had not yet lost hope; and with this I succeeded also in cheering my friend. The day was Sunday; and I knew that the Saturday following was the sailing day of the Atlantic steamer. There was then only the Cunard line; and only one steamer every fortnight. Both day and hour were fixed—each alternate Saturday at 12 noon—punctual as the Horse Guards’ clock. At both termini of her long ocean-journey was this punctuality observed; and I knew that a gun proclaimed the exact meridional hour of her departure. To reach New York, then, by 12 o’clock on Saturday, was the object to be aimed at. Was it possible of accomplishment?
Inquiry led me to believe that it was; and hope once more supplanted despair in the bosom of De Hauteroche.
Everything depended upon when we could get a boat to Wheeling: since beyond that the journey would be by stage-coach and rail; and these had fixed and certain arrangements.
When could we start for Wheeling? No one at the hotel could answer this question; and, without loss of time, we proceeded to seek our information at the wharf or landing.