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“Found in—in cubby drawer,” and Charley pointed to a certain pigeonhole in Locke’s desk.

“What? How’d it get there?”

“Misser Locke—he put.”

Apparently the Chinese was greatly enjoying the other’s amazement. Though his yellow face was grave, the slant eyes were flickering with sly interest.

“Mr. Locke put it there! Are you crazy?”

“No clazy; no, sir.”

“How do you know he put it there?”

“Note say so. Note to Charley.”

“A note to you? Come, now, this is too much. Have you seen Mr. Locke?”

“No see Misser Locke, but get note. He put.”

“He put! You— You’ll be put—in jail if you”

“Just for ’cause pay bill? Good bill?”

“Let me see your note.”

“All burn up.”

“Look here, you. Do you mean you found money and a note there, that weren’t there before? That Mr. Locke has been here—and left money for you to pay his bills?”

“Thass right. Money for me, for Caterman, for Agent man. Dassall.”

“Well, next time he comes”

“He no come more. He good-by.”

“Oh, he’s good-by, is he? Well, I think you’re making up this whole yarn. That’s what I think.”

“Yes, sir.”

But Glenn didn’t think so, he knew better. Though not for a moment did he believe the money or note had been found in that pigeonhole. He concluded Locke had gone to Charley’s home—the Chinaman went home nights—and Glenn was sure that Locke had been to see him, and by judicious payment had stopped his mouth from undesired