ARLIER in the day, when the accidental overturning of an ink-well in King's office had resulted in a liberal bespattering of Oakley's trousers, King had insisted that his own tailor should repair the damage.
"Fiddlesticks!" he had replied to his friend's arguments in favor of the hotel valet. "My man's absolutely reliable. He'll get your things back to you on time, he won't rot the cloth with acids,—and he won't rob you, which is more than can be said for any hotel tailor that I ever heard of. James"—to a boy,—"telephone to—oh, what's-his-name! You know; my tailor—and tell him to send to The Caravansary to-night, at half after six, for Mr. Oakley's trousers. He is to take out these spots—tell him the stains are ink—and return them— When do you want them, Ted? Any time to-morrow will do, James."
So it was that when Oakley reached his hotel that evening, somewhat later than he had anticipated, he found the tailor's boy awaiting his arrival. He handed the damaged garment from behind a narrowly opened door to the messenger, and serenely went about dressing.
He was in good spirits. Not only was the business that had brought him to New York moving smoothly, but he thought he detected evidences of an undercurrent favorable to his plans. For one thing, Mr. Haslett's letter asking him to meet Mrs. Haslett at Jersey City that night and take her across town to the Grand Central Station, while unimportant in itself, was not insignificant, for Warren Haslett was not a man to incur any obligation, however slight, unless he had definite plans for discharging it, and this was not the first time he had indicated a friendly confidence in Ned Oakley, although, as their social acquaintance was slight, he had never before asked service of so personal a nature.
It was well known that Mr. Haslett was ever on the alert to find energetic and able young men for his business, and rumors had recently reached Oakley that there was soon to be a vacancy in the New York office—one which he felt himself qualified to fill; hence it was not strange that his head should be full of speculations as to a possible connection between these facts and the increasing favor shown him by the older man. He was smiling tenderly at the vision, back of all these hopes and plans, of Alice's face when he should tell her—if he should tell her—that they were to live in New York, when the telephone bell rang.
"Baltimore wants you," said the operator, and a moment later a man's voice inquired: "That you, Oakley? This is Warren Haslett. Did you get my letter to-day?"
"Yes. I ought to have wired you that I did."
"Oh, that's all right. I didn't expect it. But for some reason I felt a little uneasy, and thought I'd call you up to make sure. You can go conveniently, I hope?"
"Oh, perfectly! Delighted."
"I feared you might have an engagement for dinner or for the evening."
"No; I'm entirely free to-night. Even if I were not, I should have been glad to change my plans so that I might be of service to Mrs. Haslett."
"Thank you. It's all right, then?"
"Yes. I shall start for Jersey City in a few minutes."
"Ah, that's good. How's the weather?"
"Rainy, and growing colder."
"Is it? That's bad! Mrs. Haslett has not been entirely well recently. If her train should happen to be late—"
"Be perfectly sure that I shall be there, whatever the hour."
"Ah, thank you, Oakley. Don't let her get chilled. Good night."
"I'll look after her, sir—and thanks for the opportunity. Good night."
Still smiling, Oakley went to his suit-case, which he had not fully unpacked. Contrary to his custom and against Alice's advice, he had brought no trunk, as this was to be purely a business trip, and a hurried one at that; and because she had failed to give him everything he had needed on a previous journey, he had humorously insisted upon doing his own packing this time.
He ran his fingers down at one end of his suit-case and turned the contents back, without discovering the trousers he sought. Similar tactics brought no better result at the other end. Somewhat hurriedly, his smile fading, he pulled up what lay in the middle, disarranging smooth layers of shirts and underwear. No trousers. He stared in perplexity. He knew they had been there, for he had packed them himself. He distinctly remembered also that he had not unpacked them, thinking that, lying as they did at the bottom of the suit-case, they would keep their creases find be in good condition when he should need them.