"Just take a whiff of this," Ward said, handing the envelope to Mr. Peck.
The latter smelled cautiously. "Why, it smells like my cigars."
"Exactly. Now take a squint in the envelope."
Mr. Peck opened the envelope and extracted a sheaf of currency.
"There's about twenty-four grand there," Ward offered.
"All of which is mine. It's the money that was taken from me when I was held up. I had the wallet and several of the cigars in the same pocket. The currency evidently became impregnated with the odor of the cigars. Where did you get it?"
Ward shuffled leisurely through some papers, finally producing a telegram.
"This wire," he said, flourishing the message with an extravagant gesture, "come in from the Frisco police while you were out. It says the guy downstairs on ice is Dominic Diaz. He was a guest at San Quentin up to four days ago where he was serving ten to fifty years for some mistakes he made when he was younger." Mr. Peck nodded interestedly. "It also says that when he so rudely walked off the premises without stopping to say goodbye, he was with a red headed monkey, minus one ear, that answers to the name of Mike McSweeney."
"I see."
"Mr. McSweeney had the bad taste to try to stick up our local drug emporium about half an hour ago."