“Perigua,” said Matthew, suddenly, “have you got money to go to Chicago?”
“Is that any of your damned business?”
“Yes, it is. If you are going to Chicago to look over the situation, consult with your lieutenants, and lay plans for future action, you need money. You ought to buy some clothes and stop at a good hotel.”
Matthew knew perfectly well that Perigua was going on some harebrained mission and that he might in desperation do actual harm. He knew, too, that Perigua would like to go, or to imagine he was going, on some such mission as Matthew had sketched. Suddenly, Matthew was thinking of that unopened envelope given him by the Princess. Perhaps there lay the answer to her silence and departure as well as money. The envelope was to go to Perigua only in case he was found trustworthy. But in case he was not and the envelope could not be returned, what then?
He took a quick resolve. “Come by my room—it’s on the way to the train.”
Silently Perigua followed. They went down by Elevated and soon were sitting in that upper room. Matthew went to his trunk. It was unlocked. He was startled. He did not remember leaving it unlocked; he searched hurriedly. Everything seemed intact, even his bank book and especially the sealed letter at the bottom, hidden among books. Matthew did not touch the envelope, but took out his savings bank book, and said:
“I’m going to give you one hundred and fifty dollars to get some clothes and go to a good hotel in Chicago. Try the Vincennes—I’ll write you there.”
They went out together to the bank.
Matthew returned feeling that he had done a wise thing. He had a string on Perigua and could keep in touch with him. Now for that envelope. The more he thought of it, the more he was sure that it would throw light on the situation. It was careless of him to have left his trunk unlocked. The landlady was all right, but the other lodgers! He drew out the letter and paused. What did he mean to do? He tore the letter open. A piece of paper fluttered out. He searched the envelope. Nothing more. He looked at the paper.
“Sir:
“In unwavering determination to protect the name of a certain high personage, we have taken the liberty to abstract her letter and draft. All her letters to you and yours to her will come to us. Will you not believe this is all for the best and that we remain, with every assurance of regard,
Matthew stared. When and where had it been possible? He could not conceive. Then he remembered that polite little Japanese’s visit. The Princess had never heard a word from him. She never would. Then his heart leapt. The Princess had not deliberately neglected or deserted him! She simply had not heard from him and could not find him! He had blamed the Princess for her apparent neglect, when in reality she knew nothing. He was ashamed of himself. He had yielded to debauchery and drunkenness. Well, he would atone and get back to his job. Should he write the Princess again? No. The Japanese and Indians were intercepting his letters. He started. Perhaps they had given her forged reports and sent her home disillusioned. Never mind. Even then, it would be on his report, or supposed report, that she was acting. He must get to work. He must think and plan.
XI
Matthew arose next day saner and clearer-headed and much less sanguine. It was December fifteenth. The Princess, had she been in earnest and remembered their meeting, would surely have insisted on seeing him in person and at least greeting him. It must have been curiously easy to make her lose faith. She had in all probability quite forgotten him and his errand. White America had flattered her wealth and beauty. Well, what then? Why, then it was for him to show her and her colleagues that black America counted in the world. But how? How? Then came illumination. He might himself go to Chicago! Without the slightest doubt other observers of the darker world would be on hand. He might go and curb Perigua and watch this meeting.
All the way down to Atlanta he pondered and fidgeted, and decision did not come until, to his great joy, he met Jimmie with his cheerful smile.
“Where’ve you been, you old cheat?” he cried.
Jimmie laughed. “Running to Chicago now.”
“What? Changed your run? Why?”
“Two reasons, First: it’s a good run; second—well, that I’ll show you later. Come on now and sign up for the Klan Special.”
“For the what?”
“The Klan Special. It’s on my run, and they want porters. Come and try it.”
Matthew stood still. It was just the thing. He’d go to Chicago as a porter and watch. Yes—this was precisely what he would do. With Jimmie he went to the harassed Pullman manager, who was only too glad to get so good a porter on such a train as the Klan Special.
“Had a hell of a time. Boys don’t want to wait on the Klan. Damned nonsense. The Klan don’t amount to anything. Chiefly a social stunt and gassing for effect. I will put you Car X466 near the end of the train, between Jimmie’s compartment car and the observation coach. You are bound to make a pile in tips. So long.”
Matthew and Jimmie went out together. Both were overjoyed to see each other. Matthew forgot all about Jimmie’s second reason until he noticed that Jimmie was bubbling over with some secret of his own.
“Have dinner with me,” Jimmie said. “Got something to show you.”
They took the Hunter Street car and rode across town past the quiet old campus of Atlanta University and through it and then away out by the new Booker Washington High School. Jimmie stopped at a pretty little cream and green cottage. It was tiny, but neat, and there was a yard in front
