“Eesa be da red. A leetle-a da faded,” was the answer.
Sam was convinced that Giuseppe was the real owner of the medal. A possible important discovery. And he smiled as their eyes met full, face to face. And the Italian smiled at Sam’s open-faced frankness; but utterly unsuspecting the splendidly concealed satisfaction that prompted the smile from Sam.
“Where does the man live to whom you loaned this?” asked Sam.
Giuseppe appeared puzzled. He looked up the street, then down the street, but finally said, “I dunno, eesa move away las week.”
“Where did he live?”
“In-a da cabin—odder side Nort Pacific Mill, at-a da Giles lak.”
“What is his name?”
“George-a da Golda!”
Sam was careful to appear unconcerned, and, to avoid questions that might arouse suspicions of something “crooked”—“Well,” he continued, “I have no doubt the medal is yours, but it is a valuable souvenir, and as Mr. Golda may have something to say, I shall leave my address with this officer.” He thereupon handed the officer a card, remarking, “Please file it at your headquarters.”
Then again turning to Giuseppe, Sam continued, “You notify Mr. Golda to call at the police station and put in his claim and I will be on hand with the medal at any time the authorities apprise me of Mr. Golda’s arrival.”