Page:Under three flags; a story of mystery (IA underthreeflagss00tayliala).pdf/217

 lounges about the dimly lighted freight sheds of the American Steamship Line, awaiting the arrival of the overdue vessel. "Richard's himself again," he remarks; "or will be when his long-neglected appetite is appeased. I hope the City of Havana will not keep me up all night."

The night wears on—the longest, Barker assures himself, with one exception, that he ever knew, and the sun is well above the horizon ere his heart is cheered by the boom of a cannon on Moro castle, announcing the arrival of a foreign vessel. It is the American liner, and by the time the various custom officers, summoned by the signal gun, have arrived on the wharf, the steamer is being moored to the pier.

Barker has taken a position where he can command a view of the gang-plank, and with a grim smile he awaits the disembarking of the passengers. There are not many. A few Havana business men, a score or two of Cubans, three or four Spanish officers and half a dozen Americans cross the plank, and then there is a lull in the procession.

Barker's smile fades and there is a suspicion of anxiety in his expression as the tall, slim form of Cyrus Felton does not appear.

"Perhaps he is sick," the detective thinks. "I will go aboard and inquire of the purser."

No; there was no passenger on this trip named Felton, that officer states, running his eye down the rather abbreviated passenger list.

Barker stares vacantly at the purser. Rapidly there passes through his mind the circumstances preceding his interesting journey to Havana—the departure of Felton and Miss Hathaway from the St. James; his (Barker's) hurried trip to Key West; the unavailing effort to interview Mrs. Harding; the voyage in the smuggler to Havana; last night's long and weary vigil.

And Felton did not sail on the City of Havana after all!

Without a word of thanks to the courteous purser, the detective slowly turns and retraces his steps. He walks aimlessly from the wharf, his disappointment for the time being too bitter for expression.

But John Barker, whatever his errors of judgment, is