"Would you have recognised his voice," I asked, "if you had not seen him?"
"I would when he was well and like himself, sir, in a minute, but not this time, because of the bad cold he'd got on the voyage, which he said was the worst he'd ever had. He did nothing but cough and wheeze, and could only speak in a hoarse sort of whisper."
These details were all I could extract from "Ginnie" the chambermaid; but before I left the hotel it occurred to me to examine the visitors' book for Farnham's name, wishing to look at the handwriting which, if his, I felt sure I could not fail to recognise. As I searched the pages vainly I thought with some compunction of Farnham himself, remembering how I had hardly known, on the evening of our unexpected meeting in London, whether or not to be genuinely pleased to see him. I had feared to have too much of his society during the few hours at the St. James's Theatre; yet ever since, by a strange irony of fate, I had been doomed to pursue him, to think of little that was not in some way or other connected with Harvey Farnham and his affairs.
Evidently he had not considered it worth his while to write in the visitors' book on this occasion, though I found that he had scrawled his name when staying in the hotel some months before. This counted for nothing definite, of course; and as for the taciturnity of which the chambermaid complained, the ailments from which my poor friend was reported to have been suffering were quite enough to account for that. Still, through her words and those of the man in the bar, I had gained my only real evidence–if evidence it might be called–and as such I treasured the scanty information.
Having by dint of some exertion found the cabman who had driven Farnham from the hotel to the railway depot, I made sure that his luggage had been "checked" to Denver, and so set forth again with a feeling that I had something to go upon.
Never had a journey seemed to me so endless. After Chicago the interminable plains got upon my nerves, and I looked out eagerly for the first range of the snow-clad Rockies.
The trip had taken the best part of three days, and it was early morning when I arrived in busy Denver, where the dry cold wind and the whirring shrieks of electric trams made me feel that I had left the place but yesterday. Much was changed, and many more tall, handsome blocks of pink stone had been erected during my four years' absence; still I easily found my way to the building where Harvey Farnham had offices.
It was just past breakfast time, but the business world of Denver, Colorado, and the "great West" is astir at an hour which would appear unusual in England. I asked for Mr. Farnham, and was told by a young clerk that he had returned to Denver three or four days previously. He had not been at the offices, as he was somewhat unwell as yet, but if I chose I could see Mr. Bennett, who would tell me when he might be expected.
I remembered Bennett, now that I was reminded of his existence, as an energetic young fellow high in Farnham's confidence, who probably knew as much about the mining and other financial interests as did his employer. I said therefore that I would see Mr. Bennett by all means.
He came in to me briskly in a few moments, surprised, and, he said, delighted to meet me again. Yes, it was quite true that Mr. Farnham had returned, but was as yet unable to be troubled by business affairs.