“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?
“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.”