Then there was a great question whether they would go on direct from thence to San Francisco, or delay themselves three or four days by going round by St. Louis. Lefroy was anxious to go to St. Louis—and on that account Peacocke was almost resolved to take tickets direct through for San Francisco. Why should Lefroy wish to go to St. Louis? But then, if the story were altogether false, some truth might be learned at St. Louis; and it was at last decided that thither they would go. As they went on from town to town, changing carriages first at one place and then at another, Lefroy’s manner became worse and worse, and his language more and more threatening. Peacocke was asked whether he thought a man was to be brought all that distance without being paid for his time. “You will be paid when you have performed your part of the bargain,” said Peacocke.
“I’ll see some part of the money at St. Louis,” said Lefroy, “or I’ll know the reason why. A thousand dollars! What are a thousand dollars? Hand out the money.” This was said as they were sitting together in a corner or separated portion of the smoking-room of a little hotel at which they were waiting for a steamer which was to take them down the Mississippi to St. Louis. Peacocke looked round and saw that they were alone.
“I shall hand out nothing till I see your brother’s grave,” said Peacocke.
“You won’t?”
“Not a dollar! What is the good of your going on like that? You ought to know me well enough by this time.”
“But you do not know me well enough. You must have taken me for a very tame sort o’ critter.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“Perhaps I shall. It is quite possible that you should murder me. But you will not get any money by that.”
“Murder you. You ain’t worth murdering.” Then they sat in silence, waiting another hour and a half till the steamboat came. The reader will understand that it must have been a bad time for Mr. Peacocke.
They were on the steamer together for about twenty-four hours, during which Lefroy hardly spoke a word. As far as his companion could understand he was out of funds, because he remained sober during the greater part of the day, taking only what amount of liquor was provided for him. Before, however, they reached St. Louis, which they did late at night, he had made acquaintance with certain fellow-travellers, and was drunk and noisy when they got out upon the quay. Mr. Peacocke bore his position as well as he could, and accompanied him up to the hotel. It was arranged that they should remain two days at St. Louis, and then start for San Francisco by the railway which runs across the State of Kansas. Before he went to bed Lefroy insisted on going into the large hall in which, as is usual in American hotels, men sit and loaf and smoke and read the newspapers. Here, though it was twelve o’clock, there was still a crowd; and Lefroy, after he had seated himself and lit his cigar, got up from his seat and addressed all the men around him.
“Here’s a fellow,” said he, “has come out from England to find out what’s become of Ferdinand Lefroy.”
“I knew Ferdinand Lefroy,” said one man, “and I know you too, Master Robert.”
“What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy?” asked Mr. Peacocke.
“He’s gone where all the good fellows go,” said another.
“You mean that he is dead?” asked Peacocke.
“Of course he’s dead,” said Robert. “I’ve been telling him so ever since we left England; but he is such a d⸺ unbelieving infidel that he wouldn’t credit the man’s own brother. He won’t learn much here about him.”
“Ferdinand Lefroy,” said the first man, “died on the way as he was going out West. I was over the road the day after.”
“You know nothing about it,” said Robert. “He died at ’Frisco two days after we’d got him there.”
“He died at Ogden Junction, where you turn down to Utah City.”
“You didn’t see him dead,” said the other.
“If I remember right,” continued the first man, “they’d taken him away to bury him somewhere just there in the neighbourhood. I didn’t care much about him, and I didn’t ask any particular questions. He was a drunken beast—better dead than alive.”
“You’ve been drunk as often as him, I guess,” said Robert.
“I never gave nobody the trouble to bury me at any rate,” said the other.
“Do you mean to say positively of your own knowledge,” asked Peacocke, “that Ferdinand Lefroy died at that station?”
“Ask him; he’s his brother, and he ought to know best.”
“I tell you,” said Robert, earnestly, “that we carried him on to ’Frisco, and there he died. If you think you know best, you can go to Utah City and wait there till you hear all about it. I guess they’ll make you one of their elders if you wait long enough.” Then they all went to bed.
It was now clear to Mr. Peacocke that the man as to whose life or death he was so anxious had really died. The combined evidence of these men, which had come out without any preconcerted arrangement, was proof to his mind. But there was no evidence which he could take back with him to England and use there as proof in a court of law, or even before the Bishop and Dr. Wortle. On the next morning, before Robert Lefroy was up, he got hold of the man who had been so positive that death had overtaken the poor wretch at the railway station which is distant from San Francisco two days’ journey. Had the man died there, and been buried there,
