“I have made some coffee that I know is right,” was Phillips’ quiet announcement. “I was sick, and I went downstairs to get some water from the well. Then I felt better, and, as there was no one else in the kitchen, I made some coffee on the fire and brought it up in a pitcher. See.”
He led the two detectives into his own room, and showed them a pitcher of hot coffee, with two of the heavy white-stone mugs used in that region, some thick slices of rye bread, a goodly sized cube of butter, and a table knife.
Patsy chuckled as he put his face above the pitcher of coffee and allowed the grateful aroma to steam up into his nose.
“You’re a dandy, Phil!” he exclaimed. “There’s even a paper of sugar and cream in the coffee. Here’s ‘how,’ fellows!”
It was an axiom with Patsy Garvan that a good thing should be grabbed quickly wherever it was found. So he poured out half a mug of the coffee, stirred in some sugar with the handle of the knife, and threw it down his throat with a jerk.
“Have some, Chick?”
Patsy acted as host to his comrade, while Phillips gazed at them with stony complacency and waited for them to say something about their missing chief.
It must not be supposed that either Chick or Patsy had for a moment lost sight of the fact that the disappearance of Nick Carter proved that the enemies of Prince Marcos were close on their trail.
They drank their coffee and disposed of some of the bread and butter, because they knew they could not do effective work unless they kept up their strength.
But their discussion of the case went on between mouthfuls, and with such effect that they were ready to start in pursuit of the men who had spirited away their leader even before they had finished breakfast.