It was near dawn, then, and he had not slept at all.
If Nesbit knew that he had lied, and knew Grahame, the detective might have made inquiries in Richmond. He might have learned that Grahame was not to be found. He would know, of course, that a man in Grahame’s business makes his deals with cold cash, and carries it on him. He might couple that fact with Grahame’s disappearance, and have a case to work on in his clumsy, patient fashion. If so, his patience would lead him to devise a trap for Colby.
The trap appeared on the eighth morning. No one but Colby would have recognized it as a trap. It was the most innocent-appearing of envelopes, bearing no return card, and mailed in Richmond the day before. It was addressed to Grahame, in care of Colby.
Colby took it from the mail rack in the front hall as he came down for his breakfast. He felt the blood draining from his face as he stared at it. His knees shook horribly as he retreated to his room in panic-stricken haste.
There he sat on his bed and gazed unseeingly at nothing, while the blood drummed in his ears. After a long time he realized that he was staring at the hopelessly inartistic picture which hid his booty—“Playmates,” it was called, showing an impossibly benevolent St. Bernard dog with a little girl in an impossibly starched pink dress.
Colby swallowed nothing whatever, and tried to fight down utter terror. Nobody knew that Grahame was coming to Culpeper. Nobody would have dreamed of writing to Grahame in his care, except Nesbit. It was a trap of Nesbit’s. No doubt he had asked that a watch be kept in the post office, to see what Colby did with the letter—to see if he remailed it or destroyed it—to see what effect it had.
With a feeling of panic, Colby realized that he was already showing an effect. His face was ashen. His hands were shaking. If he arrived late at his business, Nesbit would assuredly notice that.
He rubbed his face desperately with a rough towel until the color came back to it. He went down the stairs, savagely making his knees serve him. He went out and set off briskly toward the store. If he acted naturally in every way, Nesbit would think he was mistaken. Nesbit was only suspicious. He couldn’t be more than suspicious.
He had gone three blocks when Nesbit passed him amid the tinny thunderings of his decrepit car. He turned heavy, indifferent eyes upon Colby, abstractedly waved a meaningless salute, and went on.
But Colby was ashen white and utterly limp behind him, and he could not but believe that Nesbit had noticed.