We went to the office, and he examined his list.
"Lyndon Lynch—"
"That's the man," I interposed. "Lynch. Which is his room?"
"No. 24."
"I should like to know whether he is in it, or not," I added.
"He came on board at St. Joe," said the clerk, as we walked to No. 24.
Lynch was not there, and the other occupant of the room was playing cards at the table. I sat down with the clerk, and related to him all the events of the evening. Occasionally he smiled, and even laughed when I spoke of going to a prayer-meeting. I felt cheap to think I had been duped so easily, and was a subject for the merriment of the clerk.
"You will never see your money again, Phil," said he, when I had concluded.
"Why not? Don't they have any law in these civilized regions."