CHAPTER LIV.
AT BAY IN THE CONSUL'S HOUSE.
"There is something very odd in Mr. Van Zandt's actions,"
remarks Miss Hathaway, as she and Mr. Felton
follow the winding trail down the hillside to the sea.
The latter offers no explanation. He has aged fearfully
in the last half-hour, and it is now a bowed, feeble, old
man whom his companion more than once has to assist
over the obstacles in their rough path.
"To the consul's. To the consul's," is all he says, and the journey is finished in silence.
The residence of William Atwood, United States consul, is situated about two hundred yards back from the shore, about a half a mile below the mole at Santiago. The nearest neighbor is a quarter of a mile away, toward the city. It is a plain, square, two-storied structure. A broad veranda fronts both stories and ivy very nearly conceals three of the walls of the building. An innovation, to the Cuban view absurd, is an electric door-bell, put in by the consul himself. It is this bell that Mr. Felton presses, with the remark: "I begin to feel at home already."
The summons are answered by a porter who tells them that the consul is gone.
"Gone? Gone where?" demands Mr. Felton, with a start of uneasiness that is inexplicable to Miss Hathaway.
The consul is at the city. Where, quien sabe? Probably at his office in the city.
"We can do nothing except await his return or the arrival of Mr. Van Zandt," Louise says, as they step into the hall.
At the right of the entrance is the library. On the desk is pen and paper, and here Cyrus Felton seats himself and writes, while Louise stands in the doorway and watches him with troubled eyes.
