“British consulate, of course,” said Jim. “And that’s another reason for taking him first. We can hustle that schooner up all evening; but when the consulate’s shut, it’s shut.”
At the consulate we learned that Captain Trent had alighted (such is, I believe, the classic phrase) at the What Cheer House. To that large and unaristocratic hostelry we drove, and addressed ourselves to a large clerk, who was chewing a toothpick and looking straight before him.
“Captain Jacob Trent?”
“Gone,” said the clerk.
“Where has he gone?” asked Pinkerton.
“Cain’t say,” said the clerk.
“When did he go?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” said the clerk, and with the simplicity of a monarch offered us the spectacle of his broad back.
What might have happened next I dread to picture, for Pinkerton’s excitement had been growing steadily, and now burned dangerously high; but we were spared extremities by the intervention of a second clerk.
“Why, Mr. Dodd!” he exclaimed, running forward to the counter. “Glad to see you, sir! Can I do anything in your way?”