“Here’s something the lady left!” I exclaimed, as on a silver ash-tray I saw a cigarette stub, whose partly burned gold monogram betokened it had served a woman’s use.
“Hey, let that alone!” warned Hudson. “And don’t be too previous; sometimes men have gilt-lettered cigs, don’t they?”
Without reply, I scrutinized the monogram. But only a bit remained unburnt, and I couldn’t make out the letters.
Norah was digging in the waste basket, and, the scamp! when Hudson’s head was turned, she surreptitiously fished out something which she hid in her hand, and later transferred to her pocket.
“Nothing doing!” scoffed Hudson, as he turned and saw her occupation, “we been all through that, and anything incriminating has been weeded out. They wasn’t much,—some envelopes and letters, but nothing of any account. Oh, well, straws show which way the wind blows, and we’ve got some several straws!”
“Is this one?” and Norah pointed to the carriage check, which still lay on the desk.
Carriage Check/The Electric Carriage Call Co.
“Nope. Me and the Chief, we decided that didn’t mean nothing at all. It’s old, you can see, from its grimy look, so it wasn’t left here yesterday. Those things are always clean and fresh when they’re given out, and that’s sorta soiled with age, you see.”
“Well!” I exclaimed, “why would a carriage check be soiled with age? They’re used the same day they’re given out. Why is it here, anyway?”