A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the pocketbook.
“You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,” Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.
Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in Crenshaw’s pocket.
“It’s unwise to carry so much money about you,” he remarked; “it induces spending, as well as provokes attack.”
“What’s that to you?” replied Crenshaw angrily.
“Nothing whatever—it’s merely a word of advice to one who seems to need it. Now for the other pockets.”
The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys—and in the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to it.
Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note—and caught a sly look in his eyes.
“Something doing, Crenshaw?” he queried.
Another shrug was Crenshaw’s answer—and the sly look grew into a sly smile.