"The inquest will probably be tomorrow," he said practically. "Where are you staying?"
"The Alamo House."
Kinglake gave him directions.
"Don't leave town till I'm through with you," he said. "And don't forget what I told you. That's all."
He turned dourly away; and Simon Templar drove on to register faithfully and with no deception at the Alamo House.
The colored bellhop who showed him to his room was no more than naturally amazed at being tipped with a five-dollar bill for the toil of carrying one light suitcase. But the Saint had not finished with him then.
"George," he said, "I presume you are an expert crap shooter?"
"Yassah," answered the startled negro, grinning. "My name Po't Arthur Jones, sah."
"Congratulations. I'm sure that Port Arthur is proud of you.' But the point is, you should be more or less familiar with the Galveston police force — know most of them by sight, I mean."
"Well, sah, I — er — yassah."