“Want anything, sah?” he asked, thrusting his woolly head between Kirke’s curtains.
“Yes, porter, I want my clothes! They were in a bunch at the foot of my bed. Haven’t you seen them?”
“No, sah; but I’ll try to find them, sah.”
Meanwhile Mr. Rowe, Captain Bradstreet, and Paul had dressed in haste, and were now ready to join in the search.
But though they hunted all through the car, their quest was in vain. The missing garments were not to be found.
“The conductor thinks the thief must have sneaked in and stolen them at the station where we stopped at midnight,” said Paul, coming back to Kirke with the unwelcome news. “It seems the porter left the door unlocked a minute while he ran out to send a telegram for somebody.”
“And here I am in my night-gown, Paul! What on earth am I going to do?” groaned Kirke behind his curtains.
These were the only curtains now visible in the sleeper. The berths of all the other sections had been put up for the day.
“It’s an outrageous shame, Kirke, an everlasting, heathenish shame!” vociferated Paul; but in the midst of his condolence he had to burst out laughing at the sad predicament.
Kirke relieved his own feelings by throwing a pillow at his friend. To himself the situation was far from ludicrous, it was appalling. The train was steaming on at the rate of forty miles an hour; it would soon land him in New York. Then what?