“Too much drink,” hazarded Kirby, looking dubiously at Greene, who had been following Jones’ discourse with absorbed attention.
“Possibly. But it wouldn’t fit this case.”
“Physical weakness,” suggested Mrs. Hale.
“Rather a shrewd suggestion. But no weakling broke off that bedpost in Henry M. Gillespie’s room. I assumed the theory that the phenomena of that night were symptomatic rather than accidental. Therefore, I set out to find in what other places the mysterious H. M. G. had performed.”
“How did you know my initials really were H. M. G.?” asked Mr. Greene.
“The porter at the Denton had seen them ‘Henry M. Gillespie’s’ suitcase. So I sent out loudly printed call to all hotel clerks for information about a troublesome H. M. G.”
He handed the “OH, YOU HOTEL MEN” advertisement to the little group.
“Plenty of replies came. You have, if I may say it without offense, Mr. Greene, an unfortunate reputation among hotel proprietors. Small wonder that you use an alias. From the Hotel Carpathia in Boston I got a response more valuable than I had dared to hope. An H. M. G. guest—H. Morton Garson, of Pillston, Pennsylvania (Mr. Greene nodded)—had wrecked his room and left behind him this souvenir.”
Leaning over, Jones pulled, clinking from the scrap-basket, a fine steel chain. It was endless and some twelve feet in total length, and had two small loops, about a foot apart. Mrs. Hale and Kirby stared at it in speechless surprise.
“Yes, that is mine,” said Mr. Greene with composure. “I left it because it had ceased to be serviceable to me.”