He dashed out and down the stairs into the Exchange, passing midway, with the barest nod, the Weston party, nor pausing to answer the question Miss Cavendish flung after him.
Once on the rear piazza, however, he went slowly down the broad white steps to the broad brick walk—the electric lights were on, and he noted, with keen regret, how bright they made it—and thence to the Sampson Gate. It was vain! He inquired of the guard stationed there, and that, too, proving unavailing, left directions for its return, if found.
“What a misfortune!” he muttered, as he renewed the search. “What a misfortune! If any one reads that letter, the jig is up for us.... Here! boys,” to a crowd of noisy urchins, sitting on the coping along the street, “do you want to make a dollar?”
The enthusiasm of the response, not to mention its unanimity, threatened dire disaster to Macloud’s toilet.
“Hold on!” he said. “Don’t pull me apart. You all can have a chance for it. I’ve lost a wallet—a pocketbook—between the gate yonder and the hotel. A dollar to the boy who finds it.”
With a shout, they set to work. A moment later Croyden came down the walk.
“I haven’t got it,” Macloud said, answering his 124 look. “I’ve been over to the gate and back, and now I’ve put these gamins to work. They will find it, if it’s to be found. Did you telephone the office?”
“Nothing doing there!” Croyden answered. “And what’s more, there won’t be anything doing here—we shall never find the letter, Macloud.”
“That’s my fear,” Macloud admitted. “Somebody’s already found it.”
“Somebody’s stolen it,” Croyden answered.