When he was through, we carried the papers and photographs and a small book of addresses we found in the safe into the next room, and fed them to the little round iron stove there. The last of them was ash before we heard the police overhead.
“That’s absolutely all!” Pat declared when we got up from our work. “Don’t ever ask me to do anything else for you if you live to be a thousand.”
“That’s absolutely all,” I echoed.
I like Pat. He is a right guy. The sixth photograph in the stack had been of his wife—the coffee importer’s reckless, hot-eyed daughter.