Crafty Lykoff led the Bloodhound to their windward, and casually dropped the band from an other cigar. The wind bowled it towards Old Reliable. As Lykoff hoped, the negro saw it coming, stooped and picked up the glittering bit of paper. Lykoff said nothing. Gargarin said nothing. Zack's possession of the cigar band was accounted for.
Less than an hour afterwards the bearer of that secret cipher discovered that he had been none too quick in shifting it to other hands. At lunch he was taken violently ill and carried fainting from the table. The ship's surgeon administered certain medicines; Lykoff lapsed into unconsciousness. When he awaked next morning in the hospital, he wore a strange pair of pajamas, his clothing being folded on a chair—searched in every pocket and seam. Not a crevice in his cabin had been overlooked; even the soles of his shoes were ripped apart, his purse unstitched—Gargarin's scrutiny had been thorough.
"Luck's agin me," Old Reliable mused when his Russian ally showed himself on deck; "dar's de onliest white folks what kin talk my sort o' an' ain't 'lowed to say nothin' to him."
