He looked from the bit of paper to the money. He looked from the money to the bit of paper. Then he handed both to the detective.
The detective silently gazed at the letter. With his head set inquiringly askew he looked more like a fox than ever,—very sly, very wise, so very wise as to appreciate that there are a few things—exceedingly few—which even he could not explain.
For this could not be construed as an attempt to extort money!
The manager broke the silence with a laugh.
"I understand," he said. "This is the boy who says that he got into the theatre without paying—and it seems that his conscience nabbed him!"
And he laughed again.
His face changed as once more he fixed his eyes on the simple scrawl.
"And afterward he was arrested! Poor little chap!" he ejaculated gravely. And again, "Poor little chap!"
With a sudden look of determination, or rather of impulse, for Gorham rarely acted from deliberate intention, he set his hat firmly on his head, threw the half-smoked cigar into the gutter, and without another word strode off abruptly down the street, leaving the detective staring blankly after him.
With the same swift, resolute step Gorham presently took his way to a great, many-storied building, and paused at the office of a broker whose name was emblazoned on the glass door.