At the incoming baggage-room Indiman presented the check numbered 18329. A porter appeared with a large trunk loaded on a truck. "City transfer?" he asked.
"No, I'll take it with me," said Indiman. "Thorp, will you get a hack."
We were about to drive off, and I felt for my match-box. Provoking! I must have left it at home, and I wanted a cigarette. "One moment," I called, and jumped out, having caught sight of Ellison, who had been with me in college. He was hurrying into the station. I should be glad to have a word with him and secure a match at the same time. But somehow I missed him in making my way through the swinging doors. Ellison was nowhere to be seen, and I had to content myself with getting a light at the cigar counter. I went back to the carriage and climbed in.
"It was Ellison," I explained. "A good chap, and I should have liked to meet him."
"Some other time, perhaps," said Indiman, politely, and we drove off.
"So you've got it," I said, staring up at the trunk that occupied the box at the hackman's left. "It looks ordinary enough."
"The porter told me that it came in last night on the Lake Shore Limited," said Indiman. "Nothing remarkable about that, either."
A sudden thought struck me. "By Jove! we're no better than thieves," I said, frowningly. "The possession of a baggage-check doesn't necessarily carry with it the ownership of the parcel for which it calls. The rightful proprietor may be even now at the Grand Central explaining the loss of the check and trying to identify his property."
Indiman looked a little blank. "Of course, your obvious theory may be the true one," he said, slowly. "The hunting of mare's-nests is a weakness of mine. But what are you about there?"
"Telling the driver to take us back to the station," I answered, with my hand on the check-cord.