“Ah-ha!” says I. “Turned crooked on you, did he?”
“We are not sure as yet,” says Pyramid. “The federal authorities are anxious to settle that point by examining certain files which appear to be missing. They even asked me about them. Perhaps you didn’t notice, Shorty, that I was cross-examined for five hours, one day last week.”
“I don’t read them muck rakin’ articles,” says I.
“Quite right,” says Pyramid. “Well, I couldn’t explain; for, as their own enterprising detectives discovered, when Mr. Marston boarded the Montreal Express his baggage included a trunk and two large cases. Odd of him to take shipping files on a hunting trip, wasn’t it?” and Pyramid tips me the slow wink.
I’m more or less of a thickhead when it comes to flossy finance; but I’ve seen enough plain flimflam games to know a few things. And the wink clinched it. “Mr. Gordon,” says I, “for a Mr. Smooth you’ve got a greased pig in the warthog class. But suppose Egbert gets sick of the woods and hikes himself back? What then?”
“Jail,” says Pyramid, shruggin’ his sable collar up around his ears. “That would be rather deplorable too. Bright young man, Marston, in many ways, and peculiarly adapted for——”
“Yes, I know the part,” says I. “They gen’rally spells it g-o-a-t.”