When Craig pushed open the door again with the room-clerk and the policeman, Jamison was standing by the bureau, where there was a light. He seemed to be examining something in his hand. Craig looked vastly more hopeful, though his face was still a deadly white and his eyes were still sunken deeply into his head.
“This officer,” he announced, “saw me when I went out to mail that letter. Tell him about it, Officer.”
“I saw him mail a letter, sorr,” said the policeman. “I was standin’ by the mail-box whin he come up. He axed me for a light, sorr, and lighted his cigar with it. It had gone out. Thin he put his letter in the box. ’Twas a small letter, sorr, in one av th’ hotel envelopes.”
Jamison nodded uninterestedly.
“Oh, all right,” he said wearily. “Nobody thought he mailed ’em away and then called for the police to find ’em. Say,” he turned to the hotel-clerk, “when did you open up this part of the hotel?”
“About six months ago.”
“New help?” queried Jamison. He sank into a chair and yawned.
“Partly,” said the clerk. “The chambermaid’s been here a long time. The cleaner for this floor is Sam Whitehouse. You know him, I think. He’s a pretty good negro. Been fined a couple of times for shooting craps, but that’s all.”
Jamison sat up.
“Sam Whitehouse!” he said with more energy than he had displayed before. “Why didn’t you say so before? Look here.”
He took an envelope from his pocket and scribbled a few words on the back, then handed it to the officer.
“You can attend to it better than anyone else,” he commented. “See to it, won’t you? I’ll wait here.”
He lay back in his chair and frowned at the clerk.
“I wish you hotel people wouldn’t hire known criminals,” he complained. “They’re always making trouble. If there’s a smart darky in the city, it’s that same Sam. He’d steal the brass plate off a coffin—and get away with it. I guess we’ll have him now, though....”
He rolled a cigarette and puffed gloomily on it until the policeman returned.
“Got him, sorr. An’ he had the bonds. A thick wad av thim, sorr.”
Craig sprang to his feet.
“What!”
“He’s got the bonds,” said Jamison wearily. “You see, I guessed right when I said you’d probably left a letter-head or something. He just waited for you to come back to town and went through your room.”
Craig’s face was a puzzle for an instant, and then he sank back into his seat and mopped his forehead, patting it with his handkerchief.
“Thank God!” he gasped.
“Well, we’re through,” said Jamison. “Not much of a case, this. You can get your bonds in the morning at the police station.”
He strolled out the door with the policeman and room-clerk. Craig watched the door close behind them and sprang to his feet in a noiseless bound.
“Good God!” he muttered, desperately. “How—how—”
In a catlike leap he sprang to the cheap bureau in the room. With a jerk he pulled out an empty drawer. He stared at it for an instant, and then brought it down with a crash upon his knee, splintering the bottom utterly. The real bottom of the drawer came out in fragments, and a layer of veneer that fitted neatly over it was twisted and wrecked as well. And tumbling out upon the floor were the eighty neatly engraved bonds, fallen from their hiding place in the neatly contrived false bottom, just where Craig had placed them two hours before. And yet—
“I thought so,” said Jamison’s voice wearily. “It was a sloppy job.”
There was an infinitely bright flash and the room was full of smoke.