“Sam Whitehouse!” he said with more energy than he had displayed before. “Why didn’t you say so before? Look here.”
He took an envelope from his pocket and scribbled a few words on the back, then handed it to the officer.
“You can attend to it better than anyone else,” he commented. “See to it, won’t you? I’ll wait here.”
He lay back in his chair and frowned at the clerk.
“I wish you hotel people wouldn’t hire known criminals,” he complained. “They’re always making trouble. If there’s a smart darky in the city, it’s that same Sam. He’d steal the brass plate off a coffin—and get away with it. I guess we’ll have him now, though....”
He rolled a cigarette and puffed gloomily on it until the policeman returned.
“Got him, sorr. An’ he had the bonds. A thick wad av thim, sorr.”
Craig sprang to his feet.
“What!”
“He’s got the bonds,” said Jamison wearily. “You see, I guessed right when I said you’d probably left a letter-head or something. He just waited for you to come back to town and went through your room.”