I took a step toward it. Then another. Then, suddenly conscious of my weakness, I went over to it and threw back the cover.
The knife was not there. I rummaged through the garments and the odds and ends that filled the suit-case. But the knife was gone.
I rushed out of the room and ran the length of the corridor. I hurried down the stairs; looked about the office and lounge; went to the bar. There was no sign of him.
I was turning away from the barroom door, when I realized that a fat man was beckoning to me from a table by the opposite wall. He was sitting alone, an empty liqueur glass before him. Across the table was another empty glass.
He was beckoning violently, with his whole arm. I had seen that round face somewhere. Then I remembered. He was on the ship with us, crossing the Pacific—the vaudeville manager from Cincinnati—played fan-tan all the lime. I never did know his name. He wore a genial grin now. Perhaps he would have some information for me. At least, I could ask him. So I crossed over.
He wrung my hand. “How's little Mr. Music Master,” he cried. “Sit down. Oh, sure you can—sit right down there!”
I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes of two. I had said that I would be at Crocker's room at two. It was pretty important that I should keep my word. Why could n't I think more clearly? He might be somewhere about the hotel, of course. If only the knife hadn't disappeared! Suddenly I wanted to rush back upstairs and look through that suit-case again. The knife might have slipped down one side. Yes, he might have done that in getting something else cut of the suit-case.... Come to think of it, I had n't looked in the dining-room!
Then I heard what the fat vaudeville manager was saying:
“Remember the Port Watch? Big fellow—walked the deck so much—and kept a sort o' slow bun sizzling all the time? Well—”
“Have you seen him?” I asked quickly.