“I’m sure I can’t tell you,” she answered. “He was quite a stranger to me.”
“Did he express his baggage, ma’am?” asked Pinkerton.
“Hadn’t any,” was the reply. “He came last night, and left again to-day with a satchel.”
“When did he leave?” I inquired.
“It was about noon,” replied the landlady. “Some-one rang up the telephone, and asked for him; and I reckon he got some news, for he left right away, although his rooms were taken by the week. He seemed considerable put out: I reckon it was a death.”
My heart sank; perhaps my idiotic jest had indeed driven him away; and again I asked myself, “Why?” and whirled for a moment in a vortex of untenable hypotheses.
“What was he like, ma’am?” Pinkerton was asking, when I returned to consciousness of my surroundings.
“A clean-shaved man,” said the woman, and could be led or driven into no more significant description.
“Pull up at the nearest drug-store,” said Pinkerton to the driver; and when there, the telephone was put in operation, and the message sped to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s office—this was in the days before Spreckels had arisen—“When does the next China steamer touch at Honolulu?”
“The City of Pekin; she cast off the dock to-day, at half-past one,” came the reply.