This time there was no premonition of disappointment. He sought the desk and produced his card.
“Sorry, but Colonel Barrett and his niece left ten minutes ago for the steamer,” said the clerk.
“Steamer!” gasped Burton. “What steamer?”
“I’ll find out for you in a minute from the porter.” He disappeared, leaving Burton leaning against the desk staring blankly out onto the sun-smitten pavement. In a moment he returned.
“Trunks went to the American Line pier, sir.”
“Thank you,” Burton muttered. Then, turning suddenly at the doorway, “What time is the sailing?”
“Half after twelve, sir, I believe.”