“You’re prompt,” Dr. Stone said. The suit was on a hanger; the coat brushed against his knee with a soft crinkle. He ran one hand into a pocket and pulled out a paper. Strange! There had been nothing in the pockets of the suit he had carried away. His hand went up quickly to feel inside the collar. The three sharply ridged lines of thread were not there.
“Joe!” he called. “Stop that tailor’s boy——” But the driver had already discovered his mistake. He came up the walk with the suit of gray. Joe laid down the clippers and followed him in.
“I’ll carry that up to your room, Uncle Da——What’s Lady got?”
The dog had found a paper on the floor. Now she carried it to the doctor. It crinkled in his hand.
It was a small paper, no larger than half a sheet from a note-book. Joe watched those hands move, gently exploring, over every inch of surface. And as the hands moved, Dr. Stone’s face changed. Joe had seen that sharp, alert expression before. It was a silent sign that, some place in the eternal darkness of his world, the blind man had found light.
“Joe, there is writing on this paper?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy looked closer and drew in a hot, throbbing breath. “Uncle David! The same thing’s written all over it. Paul Pelle, Paul Pelle, Paul Pelle.”
Dr. Stone said a soft: “Ah!” and folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “The criminal always slips,” he observed; “there’s always something forgotten.” He stood for a moment whistling softly. “Care to stretch your legs? I want a word with the tailor.”
Joe’s eyes, fascinated, were on the writing. That paper had fallen from the suit delivered by mistake, and now his uncle wanted to know to whom the suit belonged.
“Couldn’t you telephone him, Uncle David?”