“I'm waiting!” prompted MacVightie significantly.
“Oh, all right!” The Hawk flared up a little. “If you love your grouch, keep on hugging it tight!” He jerked his hand toward the coat that was lying on the bed. “I must have lost the letter the pastor of my church gave me, but there's a couple there from the guys back in Chicago that I worked for, and there's my union card with them. Help yourself!”
MacVightie picked up the coat brusquely, shoved his hand into the inside pocket, brought out several letters, and began to read them.
The Hawk shuffled the half deck of cards in his hand monotonously.
There was a puzzled frown on MacVightie's face, as he finally tossed the letters down on the bed.
“Satisfied?” inquired the Hawk pleasantly.
MacVightie's frown deepened.
“Yes, as far as that goes,” he said tersely; and then, evenly, his eyes boring into the Hawk: “About five minutes ago a man ran into this house from the street. What's become of him?”
The Hawk started in amazement—and slowly shook his head.
“I guess you've got the wrong dope, ain't you?” he suggested earnestly.