Carleton whirled around, the match dropped to the floor, and he leaned forward over his desk, a hard look settling on his face. The man had pushed back his hat. It was Dahleen, Coogan’s fireman, Jim Dahleen.
For a moment neither man spoke. Bitter words rose to Carleton’s tongue, but something in the other’s face checked and held them back. It was Dahleen who spoke first.
“I heard about Chick—that he’d gone out,” he said quietly. “I don’t suppose it did him any good, but I kind of had to chip in on the good-by—Chick and me used to be pretty thick. I saw you come down here and I followed you. Don’t stare at me like that, you’d have done the same. Have you got that flask yet?”
“Yes,” Carleton answered mechanically, and as mechanically produced it from the drawer of his desk.
“Ever examine it particularly?”
“Examine it?”
“I guess that answers my question. I was afraid you might, and I wanted to ask you for it that day, only I thought you’d think it mighty funny, refuse, and well—well, get to looking it over on your own hook. Will you give it here for a minute?”
Carleton handed it over silently.
Dahleen took it, pulled off the lower half that served as drinking cup, laid his finger on the inside rim, and returned it to the super.
Carleton moved nearer to the light—then his face paled. It was Coogan’s flask! The inscription, a little dulled, in fine engraving, was still plain enough. “To Chick from Jim, on the occasion of his wedding.” Carleton’s hand was trembling as he set it down.