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 O'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.