In two hours they came back disconsolate, for they had not found Antony. They had found the Soliman lying at Long Wharf, and had boarded her. Nobody happened to be in the vessel but a stupid sailor, half drunk, who, when Harrington told him, very simply, that he came to look for a man hidden on board, imagined that he was a policeman, and got him a lantern. With this Harrington and Wentworth searched every hole and corner of the vessel, but Antony was not there. In fact, Bangham had him tied hand and foot, and stowed away in the back room of a low boozing ken on Commercial street, whose landlord was a friend of the captain’s. On leaving the vessel, the young men found the sailor lying in a sottish sleep, and as they were certain that he would remember nothing on the morrow of his visitors, they left him without buying his secrecy, as they had intended, and returned with heavy hearts to Temple street.
“And so,” said Harrington, concluding his narration, “as there is nothing more to be done till to-morrow, if then, let us try to forget it all as much as we can. The Soliman sails on Tuesday night, the sailor told us. I shall not abandon the hope of finding the man on board of her till she has gone.”
He took a revolver from his breast pocket as he ended, and laid it on the mantel, then wearily sat down.
“Come,” said Muriel, “let us go to tea. We shall all feel better for a little refreshment. Come, Charles.”
Tugmutton, whose grief had not injured his appetite, which was not the case with the others, bounced up nimbly, and followed them.
After tea, the doleful Puck was charged not to go near his father, and was provided with a separate room. Slowly and sadly the evening deepened on, till at last the hour of slumber spread its dove’s wings over all their sorrows.
CHAPTER XXXI.
WRECK AND RUIN.
The next day arose in the dazzling effulgence of a fervid sun. It was the thirty-first of May—the last day of spring—but the light and heat of June filled the streets of the crowded city under a cloudless and resplendent blue.