I asked him what it was, and he told me to go down to the bank and try and find out where Mr. Camm had been living for the last few weeks.
“But I can’t find out that,” I says. “Others have tried it and failed. How can I hope to succeed?”
“Never you mind, Dave, you go,” he says. “Something tells me you will succeed.”
So I went.
I had a note from Mr. Brady to the bank president, and he treated me civil enough.
“I don’t know where he lived, and no one else don’t neither,” he says. “He’s kept himself in hiding for more’n three weeks.”
“Ain’t there anything here what belongs to him?” I asked, for you see I’d been figuring it all out on the way down to the bank and it come to me somehow that this was what I wanted to say.
“Why there’s lots of things,” says the president. “There’s his old coat and two or three old hats, and an umbrella and a couple of pair of old shoes, but what does that amount to?”
“Let me see ’em?” says I.
He showed me a clothes closet where the things were along with a lot of other rubbish. I couldn’t make nothing out of them, although I examined everything carefully till I come to one hat—a plug—which looked to me to be new.