Craig told him.
“N.O. and W. 4½s,” Jamison yawned again. “Twenty-nine four eighty-seven to twenty-nine five twenty-two. All right.”
Craig rose as Jamison stood up negligently. Craig looked like a wreck. His face was a sickly white and his eyes burned from cavernous depths. His lips were trembling a little.
“They’re going to suspect me!” he said desperately. “Only one man beside myself knew I had those bonds. They’re gone—stolen. Man, you’ve got to clear me! Search me, search the room! Put me under arrest. Do something!”
“I’ll put you under surveillance,” said Jamison, “if you like.” He yawned. “Just to prove to your firm you didn’t hide out on ’em. I’ll send a man up in a little while.”
“I can give an account of every movement since I’ve been in the city,” said Craig suddenly. “Look here. I keep an account of all my expenditures. You can check me up. Here’s my dinner. Here’s the tip, and a postage-stamp on the letter to my firm. Here’s a magazine I bought.... You can check up the time on every one of them. You can trace my movements that way.”
Jamison glanced uninterestedly at the open page held in Craig’s shaking hand.
“Don’t get so excited,” he said grouchily. “Don’t y’ know that if you had swiped the stuff you’d have faked a book like that?”
He eyed the page for a moment and sat down again, as if a new chain of questioning had occurred to him.
“Say, do you often come through here?” he inquired.