“H. M. G.,” said Kirby quickly. “Is it possible that that decent-looking old boy out there is the man who stole—”
“It is not,” interrupted Average Jones with emphasis, “and I shall ask you, whatever may occur, to guard your speech from offensive expressions of that sort while he is here.”
“All right, if you say so,” acquiesced the other. “But do you mind telling me how you figure out a man traveling under an alias and helping himself to other people’s property on any other basis than that he’s a thief?”
“A, B, C,” replied Average Jones; “as thus: A—Thieves don’t wander about in dressing-gowns. B—Nor take necklaces and leave purses. C—Nor strip gems violently apart and scatter them like largess from fire-escapes. The rest of the alphabet I postpone. Now for Mr. Greene.”
The man from the outer room entered and nervously acknowledged his introduction to the others.
“Mr. Greene,” explained Jones, “has kindly consented to help clear up the events of the night of August sixth at the Hotel Denton and”—he paused for a moment and shifted his gaze to the newcomer’s narrow shoes—“and—er—the loss of—er—Mrs. Hale’s jeweled necklace.”
The boots retracted sharply, as under the impulse of some sudden emotion; startled surprise, for example. “What?” cried Greene, in obvious amazement. “I don’t know anything about a necklace.”
A twinkle of satisfaction appeared at the corners of Average Jones’ eyes.
“That also is possible,” he admitted. “If you’ll permit the form of an examination; when you came to the Hotel Denton on August sixth, did you carry the same suitcase you now have with you, and similarly packed?”
“Ye-es. As nearly as possible.”