"Well, not just in that sense, exactly, if you mean as a detective. But
I'm a newspaper man, and this is my holiday, and I'm working up a little
article about our financiers in exile while I'm resting. My name's
Pinney."
"Markham can fill you up with the latest facts," said the Canadian,
going out; "and he's got a gold mine that beats Oiseau's hollow. But
don't trust him too far. I know him; he's a partner of mine."
"That accounts for me," said Markham, with the tolerant light of a
much-joked joker in his eyes. With Pinney alone he ceased to talk the
American which seemed to please his Canadian friend, and was willing
soberly to tell all he knew about Oiseau's capitalist, whom he merely
conjectured to be a defaulter. He said the man called himself Warwick,
and professed to be from Chicago; and then Pinney recalled the name and
address in the register of his Quebec hotel, and the date, which was
about that of Northwick's escape. "But I never dreamt of his using half
of his real name," and he told Markham what the real name was; and then
he thought it safe to trust him with the nature of his special mission
concerning Northwick.
"Is there any place on board where a man could go and kick himself?" he
asked.
"Do it here as well as anywhere," said Markham, breaking his cigar-ash
off. But Pinney's alluring confidence, and his simple-hearted
acknowledgment of his lack of perspicacity had told upon him; he felt
the fascinating need of helping Pinney, which Pinney was able to inspire
in those who respected him least, and he said, "There was a priest who
knew this man when he was at Haha Bay, and I believe he has a parish
now--yes, he has! I remember Oiseau told me--at Rimouski. You'd better
look him up."
"Look him up!" said Pinney, in a frenzy. "I'll _live_ with him before
I'm in Rimouski twenty seconds."
He had no trouble in finding Père Étienne, but after the first hopeful
encounter with the sunny surface sweetness of the young priest, he found
him disposed to be reserved concerning the Mr. Warwick he had known at
Haha Bay. It became evident that Père Étienne took Pinney for a
detective; and however willing he might have been to save a soul for
Paradise in the person of the man whose unhappiness he had witnessed, he
was clearly not eager to help hunt a fugitive down for State's prison.
Even when Pinney declared his true character and mission, the priest's
caution exacted all the proofs he could give, and made him submit his
authorization to an English-speaking notary of the priest's
acquaintance. Then he owned that he had seen Mr. Warwick since their
parting at Haha Bay; Mr. Warwick had followed him to Rimouski, after
several weeks, and Père Étienne knew where he was then living. But he
was still so anxious to respect the secrecy of a man who had trusted him
as far as Northwick had, that it required all the logic and all the
learning of the notary to convince him that Mr. Warwick, if he were the
largest defaulter ever self-banished, was in no danger of extradition at
Pinney's hands. It was with many injunctions, and upon many promises,
that at last he told Pinney where Mr. Warwick was living, and furnished
him with a letter which was at once warrant and warning to the exile.
Pinney took the first train back toward Quebec; he left it at St. André,
and crossed the St. Lawrence to Malbaie. He had no trouble there, in
finding the little hostelry where Mr. Warwick lodged. But Pinney's
spirit, though not of the greatest delicacy, had become sensitized
toward the defaulter through the scrupulous regard for him shown by Père
Étienne no loss than by the sense of holding almost a filial relation to
him in virtue of his children's authorization. So his heart smote him at
the ghastly look he got, when he advanced upon Warwick, where he sat at
the inn-door, in the morning sun, and cheerily addressed him, "Mr.
Northwick, I believe."
It was the first time Northwick had heard his real name spoken since
Putney had threatened him in the station, the dark February morning when
he fled from home. The name he had worn for the last five months was
suddenly no part of him, though till that moment it had seemed as much
so as the white beard which he had suffered to hide his face.
"I don't expect you to answer me," said Pinney, feeling the need of
taking, as well as giving time, "till you've looked at this letter, and
of course I've no wish to hurry you. If I'm mistaken, and it isn't Mr.
Northwick, you won't open the letter."
He handed him, not the letter which Père Étienne had given him, but the
letter Suzette Northwick had written her father; and Pinney saw that he
recognized the hand-writing of the superscription. He saw the letter
tremble in the old man's hand, and heard its crisp rustle as he clutched
it to keep it from falling to the ground. He could not bear the sight of
the longing and the fears that came into his face. "No hurry; no hurry,"
he said, kindly, and turned away.