It's near closin' time when Old Hickory opens the door an inch or two, throws a scouty glance around, and beckons me mysterious to come in. Rupert is still there and still alive. In fact, he's chokin' over one of Mr. Ellins' fat black cigars, but otherwise lookin' fairly satisfied with himself.
"Young man," says Old Hickory, "I understand that you have heard some of Captain Killam's story."
"Eh?" says I, careless like. "Oh, yes; I believe he did feed a little of that tale to me, but—"
"You will kindly forget to mention it about the office," he cuts in.
"Yes, sir," says I. "That'll be the easiest thing I do. At the time it sounded mighty—"
"Never mind how it sounded to you," says he. "Your enthusiasms are easily aroused. Mine kindle somewhat more slowly, but when— Well, no need to discuss that, either. What I want you to do is to take Captain Killam to some quiet little hotel—the Tillington, for instance—and engage a comfortable room for him; a room and bath, perhaps."
"Ye-es, sir," I gasps out.
"In the morning," he goes on, "you will call for the Captain about nine o'clock. If he has with him at that time certain odd pieces of antique jewelry, you may report over the 'phone to me and I will tell you what to do next."
I expect I was gawpin' some, and starin' from one to the other of 'em, for Mr. Ellins scowls and clears his throat menacin'.
"Well?" he growls.