“The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home,” he sang; “'tis summer, and the darkies are gay.”
He finished the song, but there was no sign. For all the impression he had made upon Sowell Street, he might have been singing in his chambers. “And now the other,” commanded Ford.
The house-fronts echoed back the cheering notes of “Dixie.” Again Ford was silent, and again The silence answered him. The accompanist glared disgustedly at the darkened windows.
“They don't know them songs,” he explained professionally. “Give 'em, 'Mollie Married the Marquis.'”
“I'll sing the first one again,” said Ford. Once more he broke into the pathetic cadences of the “Old Kentucky Home.” But there was no response. He was beginning to feel angry, absurd. He believed he had wasted precious moments, and, even as he sang, his mind was already working upon a new plan. The song ceased, unfinished.
“It's no use!” he exclaimed. Remembering himself, he added: “We'll try the next street.”
But even as he spoke he leaped forward. Coming apparently from nowhere, something white sank through the semi-darkness and fell at his feet. It struck the pavement directly in front of the middle one of the three houses. Ford fell upon it and clutched it in both hands. It was a woman's glove. Ford raced back to the piano.
He shouted out the chorus exultantly, triumphantly. Had he spoken it in words, the message could not have carried more clearly.
Ford now believed he had found the house, found the woman, and was eager only to get rid of his companion and, in his own person, return to Sowell Street. But, lest the man might suspect there was in his actions something more serious than a practical joke, he forced himself to sing the new songs in three different streets. Then, pretending to tire of his prank, he paid the musician and left him. He was happy, exultant, tingling with excitement. Good-luck had been with him, and, hoping that Gerridge's might yet yield some clew to Pearsall, he returned there. Calling up the London office of the REPUBLIC, he directed that one of his assistants, an English lad named Cuthbert, should at once join him at that hotel. Cuthbert was but just out of Oxford. He wished to become a writer of fiction, and, as a means of seeing many kinds of life at first hand, was in training as a “Pressman.” His admiration for Ford amounted to almost hero-worship; and he regarded an “assignment” with his chief as a joy and an honor. Full of enthusiasm, and as soon as a taxicab could bring him, he arrived at Gerridge's, where, in a corner of the deserted coffee-room, Ford explained the situation. Until he could devise a way to enter the Sowell Street house. Cuthbert was to watch over it.