He did not invite his visitor to enter, and the colloquy between them was brief. It was significant that they did not shake hands, but parted with a brief though not unfriendly nod. The tall man turned and re-entered his house, closing the door again behind him, while Pennold 49 scuttled away, without a farewell glance. It might have been well had he looked once more over his shoulder, for there, crouching against the veranda rail where he had managed to overhear the last of the conversation, was that short, swarthy figure which had followed so indefatigably on his trail for three days––which had clung to him, closely but unseen, through all his devious journey of that morning. Suraci had not failed.
He tailed Pennold to his home, then went in person with his report to the great Blaine himself, who heard him through in silence, and then brought his mighty fist down upon his desk with a blow which made the massive bronze ink-well quiver.
“That’s our man! You’ve got him, Suraci. Good work! Now wait a little; I want you to take some instructions yourself over to Morrow.”
The next day the Pennolds missed the cheery greeting of their new friend, the bank-clerk. Since the acquaintanceship had been so recently formed, it was odd that they should have been as deeply concerned over his defection as they were. They said little that evening, but when his absence continued the second day, Pennold himself ambled down to the Brooklyn & Queens Bank and reluctantly deposited twenty dollars, merely for the pleasure of a chat with young Hicks. The latter’s cheery face failed to greet him, however, within its portals, and a craftily worded inquiry merely elicited the information that he was no longer connected with that institution.
“What do you make of it, Mame?” he asked anxiously of his wife when he reached home. His step was more shambling than ever, and his hands, clutching his hat-brim, trembled more than her gnarled, palsied ones.
“I’ll tell you what I think when I’ve been around to 50 Mrs. Lindsay’s this afternoon––to 46 Jefferson Place.”
“What’re you goin’ to do there? You can’t ask for him, very well,” objected her spouse.
“Do?” she retorted tartly. “What would I do in a boarding-house? Look for rooms for us, of course, and inquire about the other lodgers to be sure it’s respectable for a decent, middle-aged, married couple. Do you think I’m goin’ lookin’ for a long-lost son? The life must be gettin’ you at last, Wally! Your head ain’t what it used to be.”
But Mrs. Pennold’s vaunted astuteness gained her little knowledge which could be of value to her in their late acquaintance. Mrs. Lindsay was a beetle-browed, enormously stout old lady, with a stern eye and commanding presence, who looked as if in her younger days she might well have been a police-matron––as indeed she had been. She had two double rooms and a single hall bedroom to show for inspection, and she waxed surprisingly voluble concerning the vacancy of the latter, at the first tentative mention of her other lodgers, by her visitor.
“As nice a young man as ever you’d wish to see, ma’am. I don’t have none but the most refined people in my house. Lived with me a year and a half, Mr. Hicks did, except for his vacation––regular as clockwork in his bills, and free and open-handed with his tips to Delia. Of course, he wasn’t just what you might call steady in his goings-out and comings-in, but there never was nothin’ objectionable in his habits. You know what young men is! He had a fine position in a bank here in Brooklyn, but I don’t think the company he kep’ was all that it might have been. Kind of flashy and sporty, his friends was, and I guess that’s what got 51 him into trouble. For trouble he was in, ma’am, when he paid me yesterday in full even to the shavin’ mug which I’d bought for his dresser, and meant him to keep for a present––and picked up bag and baggage and left. I always did think Friday was an unlucky day! He stood in the vestibule and shook both my hands, and there wasn’t a dry eye in his head or mine!