Next morning he rose, and
announced his intention of setting out for the West on his tour of
inspection. He would recreate by revelling in Colorado silver lodes.
We packed our own portmanteaus, for Charles had not brought even
Simpson with him, and then we prepared to set out by the morning
train for Saratoga.
Up till almost the last moment Charles nursed his dispatch-box.
But as the "baggage-smashers" were taking down our luggage, and a
chambermaid was lounging officiously about in search of a tip,
he laid it down for a second or two on the centre table while he
collected his other immediate impedimenta. He couldn't find his
cigarette-case, and went back to the bedroom for it. I helped
him hunt, but it had disappeared mysteriously. That moment lost
him. When we had found the cigarette-case, and returned to the
sitting-room--lo, and behold! the dispatch-box was missing!
Charles questioned the servants, but none of them had noticed it.
He searched round the room--not a trace of it anywhere.
"Why, I laid it down here just two minutes ago!" he cried. But it
was not forthcoming.
"It'll turn up in time," I said. "Everything turns up in the
end--including Mrs. Quackenboss's nose."
"Seymour," said my brother-in-law, "your hilarity is inopportune.
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