THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Let me see that note," said William, wondering what it was all about.
The note was produced, and William was forced to admit that the signature resembled his own. The body of the note, however, was rank forgery.
"There's been a mistake somewhere, unless some one's playing a practical joke. I'll hike up to the room and see if anything's missing."
"I trust, Mr. Grogan—"
"Oh, that's all right. That signature would have fooled any one. But I can't understand why any one would take the trouble to play a joke on me. I'll be down in a few minutes and let you know what's happened."
He waved aside the man at the door of the electric lift and ran up the stairs three at a bound. It was quicker this way. He was a little bewildered, but no particular worry beset him. Moreover, he was not very keen. The tattered photograph occupied too prominent a place in his thoughts.
Entering his room, he sent a swift, cursory glance about. So far as he could see nothing had been disturbed. The articles on the bureau remained as he had left them. No genuine thief would have overlooked those coral cuff-links for which he had paid twelve dollars. He investigated the bureau drawers; there was no sign of alien hands. He rumpled his hair perplexedly. A package. What kind of a package?
"Aw. …" But he did not complete the thought orally.
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