“Say, is this your hat, mister?” I hollered.
The face disappeared.
“By thunder, I’ve a good mind to chuck the thing in the lot sooner than lug it all the way back to New York,” I hollered again, loud enough for any one to hear.
Then I walked off like I was mad.
“That’s him!” I thought to myself. “That’s Camm.”
Now, how did I know?
Couldn’t tell you if I was to try, but I did know. I never had no more doubt about Camm being in that house from that minute than I have that I’m Dave Doyle.
And I was right.
Wait till you hear what I did, and you’ll see.
I did chuck away the hat-box—I had no further use for it. I threw it in a lot, and went over to the Howard House, where the train on the Long Island Railroad used to start from and stop in them days, and looked at a time-table. Right away I seen that there was a train for Greenport at half past eight. It was then pretty near six o’clock.