With a smile that showed his white teeth, he strode down the street of Maine’s most thriving port and lumber town. He entered the Penobscot House, a block and a half from the depot.
He gave his luggage to a bellboy, and wrote his name on the register:
“Brick Larkins, New York City.”
The clerk looked at the inscription and smiled.
“Done it again, have I?” exclaimed the lad. “Brick is only a nickname. Shall I write it James?”
“Let it stand,” replied the amused clerk. “Will you have supper, Mr. Larkins?”
“Thanks, but I have dined on the train. Send the traps up to my room, please.”
Brick fastened a button or two of his cape-coat, and strolled out of the hotel.
He did not see the missionary standing across the street. If he had he would probably have failed to recognize him, for Mr. Pendergast now wore a tweed steamer-cap, gold glasses, and a short gray overcoat with the collar turned up.
Brick little dreamed that he was being followed as he pushed steadily across town to the banks of the Penobscot River.