Carver was making notes on his blotting pad in that strange system of shorthand which nobody understood but Carver.
“Now Tab, think very carefully before you reply, was there anything in Lander’s box, any reference to his uncle, any document respecting his uncle, anything, indeed, that had to do, even remotely, with Trasmere, in that box of Lander’s? Because I am perfectly certain that there was the objective and that the search of your room was an after-thought. In fact, it is proved by the circumstances of the thief in your room when you arrived—he had evidently left that search to the last.”
Tab concentrated his mind upon Rex and all Rex’s belongings.
“No,” he confessed. “I can’t remember anything.”
Carver nodded.
“Very good,” he said rising, “and now we’ll go along and look at this trouble of yours. When did it happen?”
“About half-an-hour ago; maybe a little more,” he looked up at the clock, “yes, it was nearer an hour ago. I tried to get you on the ’phone—”
“The machine is out of order, it always is out of order,” said the fatalistic Carver, “when there is real trouble around. In fact, if I obeyed my impulse, I should double the men on duty every time that ’phone falls down.”
They were in front of the station, and the cab that Carver had called was pulling up to the curb when another cab came dashing toward them, swerved to the side-walk and stopped dead. Out of the cab’s interior tumbled a man who was sketchily attired, and whose pyjama coat showed where his shirt should have been. Mr. Stott had arrayed himself hurriedly and for once in his life, was careless of appearance.
He fell almost into Carver’s arms and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. When he did speak his voice was a squeak.