He looked it. His face was haggard and white; his glossy hair was no longer combed back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was nothing jaunty about Eddy now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited.
“Been doing overtime,” he explained. “Lot of wires down in that storm last night.”
“Look here!” said Ross. “There’s a child here—a baby. I don’t know whose it is, or how it got here. But it’s asleep in there. Better not disturb it.”
“Wha-at!” cried Eddy. He looked amazed, he spoke in a tone of amazement, but there was something—
“By Heaven!” thought Ross. “You’ve got the other key to the garage, my lad! And the child didn’t come through a locked door.”
“A kid!” Eddy repeated.
“Queer, isn’t it?” Ross inquired, sarcastically. “If not peculiar!”
Eddy glanced at him, and then sat down and lit a cigarette.
“I’ll say it’s queer!” he observed.
“Especially as I’d left the door locked when I went out.”