“Of course not. That’s why I want you to phone without delay. Tell them I will try to be there at ten o’clock. If I am a little late, they are to hold the ship for me.” “All right, sir,” replied Morlein, as he turned to the telephone on his desk. Rayne took a seat and lighted one of the cigars that he took from Portersham’s cigar case, which he had found in his pocket. The Apache wanted a smoke. Even if he had not, most likely he would have taken out the case. It would be one of the little proofs of his identity which might impress Henry Morlein in case he were suspicious. The venturesome scoundrel listened to one end of the telephonic conversation between his private secretary and the steamship agent at the wharf. He gathered, from Morlein’s replies, that the agent was objecting to holding the _Spangled Star_ for any one, even the acting governor of Porto Rico. But Morlein shut him off sharply on that, telling him that those were Mr. Portersham’s orders, and they had to be obeyed. John Garrison Rayne grinned slightly behind his cigar. He was thinking how different everything would be if either Morlein or the steamship agent were to find out who this supposed Jabez Portersham really was. “All right, sir,” observed Morlein, at last, as he hung up the receiver. “They are reserving stateroom B for you on the upper deck. There is a suite of two rooms and bath. I hope you will have a pleasant trip. The steamer goes right through to New York. That will be your quickest route to Washington.” “I know that,” answered Rayne. “It will suit me, all right. I may have to stay over in New York for an hour or two.” “What about your baggage? Do you want me to give orders about it?” “No,” was Rayne’s reply. “I’ve no time to bother about that. I can borrow anything I need from some of the officers on the ship. Pajamas are about all I should want till I get to New York. It is easy to buy things there. Is my automobile ready?” “I’ll have it at the front door by the time we get there,” answered Morlein, as he took up the telephone receiver again. “Very well. You might come down to the ship with me, Morlein.” “All right!” * * * * * An hour later, John Garrison Rayne was sitting in his comfortable suite on board the modern and well-equipped steamer, _Spangled Star_, as it skimmed out of San Juan harbor on its way to the Atlantic. “Well, it is rather a relief to get away from San Juan,” he muttered, with a grim smile. “There are people there I don’t much like.” CHAPTER X. NICK CARTER SMELLS A RAT. It was early on the following morning when Nick Carter was awakened by Patsy Garvan coming into his bedroom to inquire if his chief could get up. “What time is it?” asked Nick. “Well, it is only six o’clock,” answered Patsy. “And you didn’t go to bed till two. I don’t like to bother you.” “That’s nothing. Go on,” broke in the detective impatiently. “What’s in the wind?”