"
"Well, what y' know about that! Say, Mr. Killigrew, any place where I
could hang out down there for a couple o' days?"
"Come as my guest, Haggerty. I can tell the folks that you're from the
office."
"Fumes! I'll bet a hat it's my maharajah's man. When do you go back?"
"About half-past two, on my yacht. You'll find it at the New York
Yacht Club pier. Some old friends of yours will be on board.
Crawford, his wife, and Forbes, the artist."
"Fine an' dandy! Forbes is clever at guessing, an' we'll work
t'gether. All right I'll hike up t' Bronx an' get some duds. Tell th'
chef that corn-beef an' cabbage is my speed-limit," jested the
detective as he reached the door.
"By the way, what's the name of that steward who took my daughter's
sapphires?"
"His monacker is Webb," said Haggerty; "Thomas Webb, Esquire; an'
believe me, he's some smooth guy. Thomas Webb."
CHAPTER XXII
For a moment Killigrew sat stiffly upright in his chair; then gradually
his body grew limp, his chin sank, his shoulders drooped. "Webb?" he
said dully.
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