"Did you take possession of any property that deceased might have had at his room in Hickwood?"
"Sure," said Pike. "Half a dozen collars, and some socks, a few old letters, and a box almost full of cigars."
"If these things are here in your office," said Garrison, rising, "I should like to look them over."
"You bet, I can put my hand on anything in my business in a minute," boasted Mr. Pike. He rose and crossed the room to a desk with a large, deep drawer, which he opened with a key.
The dead man's possessions were few, indeed. The three cigars which his pocket had disgorged were lying near a little pile of money. Garrison noted at once that the labels on two were counterparts of the one on the broken cigar now reposing in his pocket. He opened the box beneath his hand. The cigars inside were all precisely like the others. Five only had ever been removed, of which four were accounted for already. The other had doubtless been smoked.
On the even row of dark-brown weeds lay a card, on which, written in pencil, were the words:
A BIRTHDAY GREETING—WITH LOVE.
Garrison let fall the lid and glanced with fading interest at the few insignificant papers and other trifles which the drawer contained. He had practically made up his mind that John Hardy had died, as the coroner had found, of heart disease, or apoplexy, even in the act of lighting up to smoke.
He questioned the man further, made up his mind to visit Charles Scott and Mrs. Wilson, in Hickwood, and was presently out upon the road.