“They're after some guy that's ducked his nut somewhere around here,” he decided aloud. “I wonder what's up?”
The Hawk spread out his remaining cards—and swept them away from him into an indiscriminate heap.
“Aw, to blazes with cards!” he ejaculated impatiently.
He put his feet up on the table, and sucked steadily at his pipe.
“It's a cinch he never went by that door,” the Hawk assured the toe of his boot. “I guess he handed that 'bull' one, all right, all right.”
The minutes passed. The Hawk, engrossed, continued to suck on his pipe. Then from far down the stairs there came a faint creak, and an instant later the outer door closed softly.
The Hawk's feet came down from the table, and the Hawk smiled—grimly.
“Tut, tut!” chided the Hawk. “That treadmill diminuendo on the top step and the keyhole stunt is pretty raw, Mr. MacVightie—pretty raw! You forgot the front door, Mr. MacVightie—I don't seem to remember having heard it open or close until just now!”
The back of the Hawk's chair, as he pushed it well away from the table and stood up, curiously enough now intercepted itself between the keyhole and the interior of the room. He stepped to the door, and slipped the bolt quietly into place; then, going to the window, he reached out, and, from where it hung upon a nail driven into the sill, picked up the pay bag.
“That's a pretty old gag, too,” observed the Hawk almost apologetically. “I was lucky to get by with it.”