I do not know how Pinkerton felt, but I had death in my soul as we came down the outside stair from the den of this blotched spider. My whole being was strung, waiting for Jim’s first question, and prepared to blurt out—I believe, almost with tears—a full avowal. But my friend asked nothing.
“We must hack it,” said he, tearing off in the direction of the nearest stand. “No time to be lost. You saw how I changed ground. No use in paying the shyster’s commission.”
Again I expected a reference to my suppression; again I was disappointed. It was plain Jim feared the subject, and I felt I almost hated him for that fear. At last, when we were already in the hack and driving towards Mission Street, I could bear my suspense no longer.
“You do not ask me about that address,” said I.
“No,” said he, quickly and timidly, “what was it? I would like to know.”
The note of timidity offended me like a buffet; my temper rose as hot as mustard. “I must request you do not ask me,” said I; “it is a matter I cannot explain.”
The moment the foolish words were said, that moment I would have given worlds to recall them; how much more when Pinkerton, patting my hand, replied, “All right, dear boy, not another word; that’s all done; I’m convinced it’s perfectly right!” To return upon the subject was beyond my courage; but I vowed inwardly that I should do my utmost in the future for this mad speculation, and that I would cut myself in pieces before Jim should lose one dollar.
We had no sooner arrived at the address than I had other things to think of.
“Mr. Dickson? He’s gone,” said the landlady.
Where had he gone?