“My name is Jimmy Raymond,” the pianist informed them. “What’s yours?”
Tom supplied the information.
“A club,” began Jimmy. “Why, I never——”
“Of course not,” said Tom graciously. “We’ve heard that before. Now for goodness’ sake tell us what you are doing here?”
“Playing the piano.”
“Oh, please don’t joke—— Say, boys, we’ll have to tell the Texas Rangers about this meeting.”
A peculiar change came over Jimmy’s face at these words, though the tones of his voice remained the same as he said: “The Texas Rangers—what do you mean?”
The observant Tom, ever ready to scent a mystery, began to wonder if they hadn’t come across one here. It seemed to him very strange indeed that a boy of Jimmy’s refined appearance should be making his living in a little Mexican motion-picture theater. But before he had a chance to say any more the lights faded, and the second reel of the tragedy was flashing on the screen.
Tom lost all his interest in the pictures. His detective instincts were aroused, and by the time the interior was aglow with light for the last time that night he had managed to convince himself that it was his duty to learn as much as possible about Jimmy Raymond.
When the lad stood up Tom Clifton made a discovery that sent a little jarring note through him. He could see even when the pianist had been seated that he was tall, but that he should actually be as tall as himself was never dreamed of. Tom even felt a little aggrieved. So long accustomed to looking down upon his fellows he had almost come to regard it as a right not to be infringed upon.