“I’m Ken Holt.”
“I’m Amos Barrack,” the stranger said. “My landlady told me you phoned about something I left in Brentwood.”
Ken was trying to collect his scattered wits. “But you’re not the man we thought you’d be.”
Barrack smiled. “And I don’t know what I left in Brentwood. Nothing, so far as I know. I thought maybe I’d better drop by and get it straightened out tonight.”
The boys stepped back from the doorway.
“Come on in,” Ken said, and closed the door behind their visitor when he had stepped into the foyer. “Sit down, won’t you?” He led the way to the living room. “We seem to have caused you some unnecessary trouble,” he added, as Barrack settled himself somewhat tentatively on the nearest chair. “But we were trying to do you a favor.” He smiled.
“A favor?” Barrack sounded more puzzled than ever.
Ken glanced at Sandy to see if he wanted to explain, but Sandy’s expression told him that this was his problem.
“It’s this way,” Ken began. “The day before Christmas a man stopped in at Sam Morris’s jewelry store in Brentwood—that’s where we live—to have his watch crystal replaced. When he returned to pick it up he paid Morris with a twenty-dollar bill. But just at that moment a small fire broke out in the store. Just a little blaze in a wastebasket. When the excitement died down and Morris looked around for his customer a few minutes later, to give him his change, the man had disappeared. Morris was worried about it, and eager to find the man and give him his money. So—”
“But what made you call me?” Barrack interrupted.