the probable consequences of the finding of that pocket-book flashed
through my mind as I extended my hand to take it. Then I drew my
arm back.

"I don't want it," I said. "Look inside. Maybe the other man took
the money and left the wallet."

The conductor opened it, and again there was a curious surging
forward of the crowd. To my intense disappointment the money was
still there.

I stood blankly miserable while it was counted out--five
one-hundred-dollar bills, six twenties, and some fives and ones that
brought the total to six hundred and fifty dollars.

The little man with the note-book insisted on taking the numbers of
the notes, to the conductor's annoyance. It was immaterial to me:
small things had lost their power to irritate. I was seeing myself
in the prisoner's box, going through all the nerve-racking routine
of a trial for murder--the challenging of the jury, the endless
cross-examinations, the alternate hope and fear. I believe I said
before that I had no nerves, but for a few minutes that morning I
was as near as a man ever comes to hysteria.

I folded my arms and gave myself a mental shake. I seemed to be
the center of a hundred eyes, expressing every shade of doubt and
distrust, but I tried not to flinch. Then some one created a
diversion.

The amateur detective was busy again with the seal-skin bag,