Vale told the story of the outrage briefly. It stirred the soul of the blacksmith deeply, and his lips were not slow in uttering his sentiments. He asked to share John’s search, and to be permitted the privilege of avenging her wrongs. The only service which was now required was to endeavor to find some traces of Catherine; and, in case any thing went wrong with Vale, to send immediate intelligence of it to Nat Ernshaw.
“Now that we understand each other,” finally interposed Hunt, “I suppose that you will stop at my house, for the present, at least.”
“Under other circumstances, I would be happy to do so,” responded Vale; “but, at present, it would not be prudent. If any thing evil should chance to befall me, you might be placed in a bad predicament.”
“Pooh! never mind that. If any one should inquire about you, why, we will call you my wife’s cousin; and I defy any one to recognize you under that disguise.”
“There is another reason why I should not accept your hospitality, and that is this: I have already engaged lodging at a rather obscure-looking inn, and, having paid a week in advance, for the landlord did not seem inclined to trust me with lodging before seeing the color of my money. If I should not make my reappearance, it might excite suspicion and cause inquiry to be made. Of course, that is the last thing I would have to happen.”
“Perhaps it will be better; but remember that you are welcome to count on me for any assistance, or to use my house as your home during your stay in the city. We are fellow-workers for freedom and the right, and that gives you a full claim to my sympathy.”
“You will, doubtless, soon see me; meanwhile be on the alert to catch any loose information which may be within reach. If, at any time, you wish to communicate with me, you will find me at the ‘Traveler’s Home,’ kept by Jim Fagan.”
These were John Vale’s last words; and half an hour later found him sitting in the front room at Fagan’s.
Notwithstanding the smallness of his hotel, Fagan seemed to do a good business, and it kept the red-headed boy at the bar busily engaged to satisfy the wants of the numerous applicants for his villainous beverages. Vale, still in disguise, sat in a corner, never speaking, but carefully noting all that was said or done around him. Some of those who were sitting by cast a glance of inquiry at the queer-looking figure, but they evidently had no suspicion of his real character, only wondering what brought him into Fagan’s place. The “Traveler’s Home” was a quiet enough house in the daytime, and even at night a stranger was in no danger of being insulted or maltreated within its precincts; but the men who frequented it after nightfall were of rather doubtful, if not of desperate character, and it was not without the repute of being no better than a gambling-den. Vale knew nothing of the character of the place when he first secured lodgings there.
He was destined to learn much of the place and its “patrons” before he again entered the confines of Cedar Swamp.