III
When Craig pushed open the door again with the room-clerk and the policeman, Jamison was standing by the bureau, where there was a light. He seemed to be examining something in his hand. Craig looked vastly more hopeful, though his face was still a deadly white and his eyes were still sunken deeply into his head.
“This officer,” he announced, “saw me when I went out to mail that letter. Tell him about it, Officer.”
“I saw him mail a letter, sorr,” said the policeman. “I was standin’ by the mail-box whin he come up. He axed me for a light, sorr, and lighted his cigar with it. It had gone out. Thin he put his letter in the box. ’Twas a small letter, sorr, in one av th’ hotel envelopes.”
Jamison nodded uninterestedly.
“Oh, all right,” he said wearily. “Nobody thought he mailed ’em away and then called for the police to find ’em. Say,” he turned to the hotel-clerk, “when did you open up this part of the hotel?”
“About six months ago.”
“New help?” queried Jamison. He sank into a chair and yawned.
“Partly,” said the clerk. “The chambermaid’s been here a long time. The cleaner for this floor is Sam Whitehouse. You know him, I think. He’s a pretty good negro. Been fined a couple of times for shooting craps, but that’s all.”
Jamison sat up.