“It’s a clear case of bolt,” said Jim. “He’s skipped, or my name’s not Pinkerton. He’s gone to head us off at Midway Island.”
Somehow I was not so sure; there were elements in the case not known to Pinkerton—the fears of the captain, for example—that inclined me otherwise; and the idea that I had terrified Mr. Dickson into flight, though resting on so slender a foundation, clung obstinately in my mind.
“Shouldn’t we see the list of passengers?” I asked.
“Dickson is such a blamed common name,” returned Jim; “and then, as like as not, he would change it.”
At this I had another intuition. A negative of a street scene, taken unconsciously when I was absorbed in other thought, rose in my memory with not a feature blurred: a view, from Bellairs’s door as we were coming down, of muddy roadway, passing drays, matted telegraph wires, a China-boy with a basket on his head, and (almost opposite) a corner grocery with the name of Dickson in great gilt letters.
“Yes,” said I, “you are right; he would change it. And anyway, I don’t believe it was his name at all; I believe he took it from a corner grocery beside Bellairs’s.”
“As like as not,” said Jim, still standing on the side-walk with contracted brows.
“Well, what shall we do next?” I asked.
“The natural thing would be to rush the schooner,” he replied. “But I don’t know. I telephoned the captain to go at it head down and heels in air; he answered like a little man; and I guess he’s getting around. I believe, Loudon, we’ll give Trent a chance. Trent was in it; he was in it up to the neck; even if he couldn’t buy, he could give us the straight tip.”
“I think so, too,” said I. “Where shall we find him?”