"It was in the Gotham Gazette,—your own paper,” she said, with ill-concealed triumph.
"It was in the Gotham Gazette which Coke said he had seen in a vision," White returned; "but I do not think it was ever in any Gotham Gazette sent out from our office in Park Row."
"But I thought" began Mrs. Jones, when her husband interrupted.
"I'm afraid it is no use arguing with White," he said: "he seems to have all the facts at his fingers' ends."
"Thank you," White rejoined. "I wish I had my fingers' ends on Coke's collar."
"That's just what I wanted to ask you," said Dear Jones. "Where is he?"
"How do I know?" returned White.
"What do you think?" Dear Jones asked.
"I don't know what to think," answered Robert White: "the facts fail me. Probably the Barataria was not very far from shore when she anchored off Quarantine that night, soon after you and Mr. Macdonough left him in the stern of the ship?"
"We were within pistol-shot of the health officer's dock, I suppose," replied Dear Jones.
"Then," said Robert White, "perhaps Coke jumped overboard and swam ashore, and so killed the trail by taking water. We have an extradition treaty with Great Britain, and he may have told you his dream so that you could bear witness in case he was tracked by the detectives. On the other hand, he was a, queer man, hysteric, and a mystic, and it may be that he did commit suicide. Perhaps, even, he told you the truth when he told you his dream."
"I shall always believe that," Mrs. Jones remarked.
"So shall I," said Mrs. Martin. "It is very unpleasant to destroy one's faith in anything. It is so much better to believe all one can: at least that is my opinion."
This opinion was handed down by the Duchess with an air which implied that no appeal could be taken.
Robert White wisely held his peace.
Then the train slackened before stopping at the station where Mrs. Martin's was awaiting them.
