"Hard luck, old fellow," said Harber, crossing to him. "'Sall up!" said Barton, grinning gamely. "I'm through. Asked 'em to send you in. Do something for me, Harber—tha's right, ain't it—Harber's your name?"
"Yes. What is it, Barton?"
Barton closed his eyes, then opened them again.
"Doggone memory—playin' tricks," he apologized faintly. "This,
Harber. Black-leather case inside leather grip there—by the wall.
Money in it—and letters. Everything goes—to the girl. Nobody else.
I know you're straight. Take 'em to her?"
"Yes," said Harber.
"Good," said Barton. "All right, then! Been expecting this. All ready for it. Name—address—papers—all there. She'll have no trouble—getting money. Thanks, Harber." And after a pause, he added: "Better take it now—save trouble, you know."
Harber got the leather case from the grip and took it at once to his own stateroom.
When he returned, Barton seemed for the moment, with the commission off his mind, a little brighter.
"No end obliged, Harber," he murmured.
"All right," said Harber, "but ought you to talk?"