"Take those things upstairs—show 'em, Christopher," says Jerry. "You show 'em to their rooms, Poole. And when you're washed up, Flynn, come down here again."
Over his shoulder I watched the hulking devils go past in sheepish single file with furtive glances at me. When they had passed out of sight, Jerry explained rapidly.
"You see, Roger, we had to do it. There was no other way. I needed some running badly and there wasn't a chance for it—without the whole thing coming out in the papers."
I smiled ironically. "And you think you've chosen a way to avoid publicity by bringing these"—I restrained myself with difficulty—"these gentlemen here? Don't you know that every paper in New York will have a man here writing the thing up?"
"No, they won't. They can't get in. I stopped at the Lodge as I came by and gave my orders."
"But they'll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same."
Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose.
"No, they won't, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he isn't."
"I don't understand."
"Well, you see, I'm Jim Robinson and you are Jerry Benham."