It must be very late, and in this quarter, at least, the noises of the earlier night have passed away.
The only sounds that come plainly to their ears are the booming of the heavy tide on the rocks, and the sweep of the night wind through the cypress trees.
When they turn again after making an effort to locate themselves, the door in the wall is closed, and the Maltese woman is gone.
There is no cause for them to linger, and they move away.
John Craig has nothing to say. The disappointment has been keen, and he does not yet see a ray of light ahead.
Hope had such a grasp upon his soul, when he started from the hotel, that the fall has been more disastrous.
Not so Philander Sharpe.
An evil fortune has kept him pretty quiet for quite a little while now, and he begins to make up for it in part, chirping away at a merry rate as they push their way along the street.
At first Doctor Chicago pays little heed to what he says, but presently certain words catch his ear and tell him that the professor is not merely speaking for oratorical effect or to hear himself talk.
"What's that you say, sir?" he asks.