Simmonds approached cautiously and took another look.
“A nut?” he repeated. “A nut? Well, that beats me!”
And well it might, for in every detail the form was perfect. Godfrey looked at it musingly.
“This may give us a clew,” he said. “I shouldn’t imagine a nut like this grows in many parts of the world. Though, of course, a sailor might pick it up anywhere—from another sailor, in a slop-shop, even here in New York, perhaps.”
He closed the shell together again and placed it in the bag, stuffing the rest of the clothing in after it.
“Thompson had no very exalted idea of cleanliness,” he remarked. “His clothing needs a visit to the laundry. And this is all?”
“Yes—he’d rented his furniture from a store down the street. He had to pay his rent in advance because he had so little baggage. That receipt’s the only thing that’s got his name on it—oh, yes; there’s a letter tattooed on his left arm, but it’s not a T—it’s a J.”
“Which goes to show that his name wasn’t Thompson. I think you’re right, Simmonds, in putting him down as a sailor. I thought so last night—in fact, I’ve already got two men making a tour of the docks trying to find somebody who knew him.”
“Have you?” said Simmonds, smiling. “That’s like you. There’s another curious thing, though, about the clothing he had on.”
“What is that?”
