“No; I have my back turned. He does not talk our kind of American.”
Captain Tucker gave a grunt of exasperation. “That’s too thin for identification. A thousand men within twenty miles might talk with a foreign accent. I can’t understand this, Doctor. If somebody wanted to use Ira to carry a message why did they shoot close enough to hit him?”
“I wonder,” Dr. Stone said gravely. His hand went into his pocket and this time came out with the pouch. Slowly, almost leisurely, he filled the pipe.
Joe Morrow, groping in the dark for light, abruptly grasped the cords of memory. “Ira could have known his voice,” the boy cried, excited.
“How’s that?” Captain Tucker barked.
“I saw Ira talking to the organ-grinder yesterday in front of the bank.”
“I asked him about the monkey,” Ira said stolidly. “I thought maybe I might buy one for Billy.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that?” Captain Tucker flared in a temper. “Here we’re wasting time——”
“And my boy being taken farther away every minute,” Mr. Foster groaned in sick despair. “Do something! I tell you I can’t stand this waiting, waiting! Do something!”
“Perhaps,” Dr. Stone said gently, “we have already done something. How was Ira tied, Tucker? Tight?”