“You do not ask me about that address,” said I.

“No,” said he, quickly and timidly.  “What was it?  I would like to know.”

The note of timidity offended me like a buffet; my temper rose as hot as mustard.  “I must request you do not ask me,” said I.  “It is a matter I cannot explain.”

The moment the foolish words were said, that moment I would have given worlds to recall them:  how much more, when Pinkerton, patting my hand, replied:  “All right, dear boy; not another word; that’s all done.  I’m convinced it’s perfectly right.”  To return upon the subject was beyond my courage; but I vowed inwardly that I should do my utmost in the future for this mad speculation, and that I would cut myself in pieces before Jim should lose one dollar.

We had no sooner arrived at the address than I had other things to think of.

“Mr. Dickson?  He’s gone,” said the landlady.

Where had he gone?

“I’m sure I can’t tell you,” she answered.  “He was quite a stranger to me.”

“Did he express his baggage, ma’am?” asked Pinkerton.

“Hadn’t any,” was the reply.  “He came last night and left again to-day with a satchel.”

“When did he leave?” I inquired.

“It was about noon,” replied the landlady.  “Some one rang up the telephone, and asked for him; and I reckon he got some news, for he left right away, although his rooms were taken by the week.  He seemed considerable put out:  I reckon it was a death.”

My heart sank; perhaps my idiotic jest had indeed driven him away; and again I asked myself, Why? and whirled for a moment in a vortex of untenable hypotheses.

“What was he like, ma’am?” Pinkerton was asking, when I returned to consciousness of my surroundings.

“A clean shaved man,” said the woman, and could be led or driven into no more significant description.

“Pull up at the nearest drug-store,” said Pinkerton to the driver; and when there, the telephone was put in operation, and the message sped to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s office—­this was in the days before Spreckels had arisen—­“When does the next China steamer touch at Honolulu?”

“The City of Pekin; she cast off the dock to-day, at half-past one,” came the reply.

“It’s a clear case of bolt,” said Jim.  “He’s skipped, or my name’s not Pinkerton.  He’s gone to head us off at Midway Island.”

Somehow I was not so sure; there were elements in the case, not known to Pinkerton—­the fears of the captain, for example—­that inclined me otherwise; and the idea that I had terrified Mr. Dickson into flight, though resting on so slender a foundation, clung obstinately in my mind.  “Shouldn’t we see the list of passengers?” I asked.

“Dickson is such a blamed common name,” returned Jim; “and then, as like as not, he would change it.”

At this I had another intuition.  A negative of a street scene, taken unconsciously when I was absorbed in other thought, rose in my memory with not a feature blurred:  a view, from Bellairs’s door as we were coming down, of muddy roadway, passing drays, matted telegraph wires, a Chinaboy with a basket on his head, and (almost opposite) a corner grocery with the name of Dickson in great gilt letters.