Indiman told the whole story without reserve, and Brownson listened with cold incredulity. But Ellison seemed interested.
"A baggage-check handed in at the door," commented the detective, with judicial impassivity. "Where is this organ-grinder?"
"Here," I answered, and entered with Uncle Bartolomeo.
But the examination, severe as it was, revealed only the bare fact that Bartolomeo had found the brass baggage-check lying on the sidewalk in front of No. 4020 Madison Avenue. He was an honest man, and, moreover, the acticle was of no use to him. He had given it to the servant at the door to be handed over to the gentleman of the house. That was all he knew. By the Holy Virgin, he had spoken the truth!
Brownson rang the call-bell. "Bring in the trunk," he said, curtly, and forthwith two policemen appeared with the fatal box, just as it had been exhumed from its resting-place in the coal-bin. "Hullo!" blurted out Ellison, in vast surprise, and somehow my sinking spirits revived with the word.
"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Brownson, frowning at the interruption.
"Dr. Ellison," I answered.
"Medicine?"
"Yes."
"Hum," said Brownson, importantly. "I will ask him to kindly take charge—"