out of the business and take in back-stairs to clean!"

Milo was approaching the couch, moving with a stealthy
lightness, unusual in so large a man. Leaning over the
supposedly unconscious Gavin, he ran his fingers deftly
through Brice's several pockets. In only two was he lucky to
find anything.

From a trousers pocket he exhumed seventy-eight cents. From
the inner pocket of the coat he extracted a card, postmarked
"New York City," and addressed to "Gavin Brice, General
Delivery, Miami, Florida." The postcard was inscribed, in a
scrawling hand:

"Good time and good luck and good health to you, from us all.
Jack 0'G."

Gavin knew well the contents of the card, having written it
and mailed it to himself on the eve of his departure from the
North. It was as mild and noncommittal a form of
identification as he could well have chosen.

Standish read the banal message on the soiled card, then
restored cash and postal to their respective pockets. After
which he stood frowning down in puzzled conjecture on the
moveless Gavin.

"Well, old chap!" soliloquized Brice. "If that evidence
doesn't back up all I said about myself, nothing will. But,
for the Lord's sake, don't help yourself to a pipeful of