THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
thoughts were more or less engaged in going over that afternoon's adventure.
Now that the extraordinary troubles of life had simmered down into the matter-of-fact, every-day affairs—now that Ruth was on the way back and there was money in his pocket—it occurred to William that he would like to know what had become of the man Colburton. After an unsuccessful series of inquiries he finally decided that the only avenue open was the house in Malay Street, and thither he directed his steps, careless of the fact that his hour was irregular, indifferent if any saw him. He wanted news and he was not particular how this news was acquired.
The woman he desired most to see answered his ring. She was not going to let him in, believing his visit of a hostile nature.
"Keep that door open," he said. "I want some questions answered, and I want them answered straight. I could give you a taste of the British jail here if I wanted to."
"What do you want to know?"
"What's become of Colburton?"
"He has gone. Sailed away in his yacht."
"Didn't know but he might be dead."
"No fault of yours that he's alive," the woman replied, sullenly.
"What happened to him before I took my wife out of here?"
The woman fell back, her mouth open. "Your wife?"
"Ye-ah."
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