Unaware that she had been followed, much less that she had so effortlessly eluded an expert tracker, Abigail hurried into the Chronicle building. As she hurriedly approached the query desk, she scarcely noticed a young man in a cap lounging against the wall nearby. His soft shirt, thickly knotted tie, and carelessly pressed suit stamped him as a member of the middle classes. He stood close enough to overhear those who inquired at the desk, but assuming he was waiting for messages of his own Abigail ignored him as she asked the clerk if there had been any responses to her ad. Not knowing what she truly wished to hear placed her in something of a dither, and she glanced toward the young man just as he straightened himself up and looked in her direction.Flustered by the directness of his gaze, Abigail swiftly turned toward the counter in time to greet the clerk who had returned empty handed.
Stricken by the news, she moved away from the counter feeling as if she had lost her best friend with a brutal suddenness. Surprised by the depth of her disappointment, she wished for a flourish of trumpets, or cymbal crash to mark the end of her career. Thus occupied with her thoughts she paid no attention to the young man who had been loitering nearby until he had drawn closer, and was actually intent upon speaking to her.
"I beg your pardon, miss," he said, removing his cap to reveal a curly mop of sunburnt hair. "May I have a word with you?"
Taken aback that a stranger would accost her, and annoyed that he had intruded upon such an emotional moment, Abigail brushed past him without deigning to respond, her upright carriage rigid with disapproval.
The young man allowed her to sweep past him, but, undeterred by her rebuff, kept pace at her side, respectfully turning his cap in his hands as he asked in a low voice, "Would yours be the initials of the A. P. D. in the advertisement?"
Abigail stopped in her tracks. Her heart raced wildly as she turned to look at him more closely. Ignoring his wretched clothes, she noted that his clear blue eyes were alight with intelligence and, while Kinkade would no doubt have relegated him to the ranks of riffraff, he seemed harmless enough. Drawing herself to her full height, using her most imperious manner so that he would not mistake her reply for an invitation to befriend her, she replied haughtily, "Why do you ask?"
Peering about to make sure no one was near enough to overhear, he whispered, "I've been waiting for you off and on for the past few days, but not knowing when you'd show up, I reckon I've missed you a time or two."
"Why are you here in person?" Abigail asked with a frown. "Can you not write?"
Much to her consternation, he burst out laughing. Heartily annoyed at being laughed at yet again for something she had unwittingly said, and duly noting that his front teeth were missing, Abigail turned to leave.
Instantly sober, he swiftly caught up to her side. Keeping pace with her, he looked about again, obviously concerned that they not be seen together. "If my written answer got into the wrong hands--" he shrugged in a conspiratorial manner.
Slowing her pace, she looked at him askance. "And who are you, may I ask?"
"Oh, sorry, miss." He held out his hand. "My name is Jack London. I am a writer," he continued with raised brow to acknowledge why he had been so amused by her questioning his literacy. "My first book of short stories is due out any day now."
Abigail stopped. His outstretched hand threw her into a quandary. Curious to know why he had accosted her, she was loathe to cut him, yet she could not in all conscience place her hand in that of a strange man's simply because he had the audacity to speak to her. Glad Kinkade was not present to stop her, pretending not to notice his outstretched hand, she said, "I daresay that is nice for you, Mr.--ah--London, but if you must know, I do not make it a practice to speak with a man unless we have been properly introduced."
Understanding her dilemma perfectly, Jack withdrew his hand and shrugged good naturedly. "Maybe you'll make an exception in my case if you are seeking answers for someone with the initials A. P. D.," he said somberly. "I do not know who the culprit is, but I might have information that could bear upon the death of Charles Everet Davenport, the third."