This sprightly exchange was cut short by a shrill voice from the basement calling: "Sa-a-d-e-e-e!"
"Darn!" muttered the girl. "I've got to go or she'll scream her lungs out!"
"Which is Charley's room?" said Evan. "I'll go up."
"Second floor rear hall," she said as she disappeared.
Her cryptic description was sufficient to anyone who knows New York rooming houses. The room was typical. Charley had not been in it long enough to give it any of his own character. You squeezed past the bed to a tiny rectangular space at the foot where there was just room enough for a bureau, a wash-stand and one chair. If the occupant had a visitor one of them must sit on the bed.
Evan sat down in the chair and filled his pipe, thinking grimly of the surprise that Charley was due to receive when he opened the door. Suppose Charley flatly refused all information, how could he make him speak? It occurred to him that it would be well to be supplied with evidence, and he began to look over Charley's things. After the way Charley had acted he had no scruples in doing so; he would not have been at all put out of countenance had Charley come in.
He scarcely expected to find anything of importance—still Charley was extraordinarily careless. Seeing a book lying on the bureau (a novel by Jack London) Evan was reminded of an old habit of his friend's of putting any paper he wished to save between the leaves of a book. He shook the book and several papers dropped out: to wit: a letter from his mother; ditto from a girl in his home town, and lastly a sheet of thin paper with typewriting upon it. Evan put the first two back and studied the third. As he grasped the purport of it, he pursed up his lips to whistle and his eyes grew round. This was a prize indeed!