"Oh, yes," he heard himself saying. "That ticket. Quite so, of course. Bolt left a bag for me at Shrub Hill Station."
"He did."
"Give me the ticket."
"Later," said John, and put it back in his pocket.
Mr. Carmody's elation died away. There was no question now about the peculiar look in his companion's eye. It was a grim look. A hard, accusing look. Not at all the sort of look a man with a tender conscience likes to have boring into him.
"What—what do you mean?"
John continued to regard him with that unpleasantly fixed stare.
"I hear you have offered a reward of a thousand pounds for the recovery of those things that were stolen, Uncle Lester."
"Er—yes. Yes."
"I'll claim it."