Part 12 (1/2)

Catching the nearest street car I rode down to Market Street. It was a cool night, so that I was justified in turning up my coat collar in such a way as to conceal partially my face.

Inconspicuously I stepped into the Argonaut and up the stairs to Blythe's room.

Sam met me at the door and nodded in the direction of No. 417.

”He went out half an hour ago.”

”I'll bet he got a telephone message from little Nick Carter first,” I grinned.

Three minutes later we were in Bothwell's room. Since it was probable that he was making himself at home in mine it seemed only fair that we should do as much in his.

We did. If there was a nook or corner within those four walls we did not examine I do not know where it could have been. Every drawer was opened and searched for secret places. Bedposts, legs of chairs and tables, all the woodwork, had to undergo a microscopic scrutiny. The walls were sounded for cavities. We probed the cus.h.i.+ons with long fine needles and tore the spreads from the beds. The carpet and the floor underneath were gone over thoroughly. Blythe even took the frame of the mirror to pieces to make sure that the shred of paper we wanted did not lie between the gla.s.s and the boards behind.

At last I found our precious doc.u.ment. It was in the waste-paper basket among some old bills, a torn letter, some half smoked cigarettes, and a twisted copy of that afternoon's _Call_. Bothwell had thrust it down among this junk because he shrewdly guessed a waste-paper basket the last place one would likely look for a valuable chart.

To deprive him of it seemed a pity, so we merely made a copy of what we wanted and left him the original buried again in the junk where he had hidden it.

My watch showed that it was now between one and two o'clock. Since Bothwell might now be back at any time we retired to Blythe's room and _learned by heart_ the torn fragment of directions.

This did not take us long for there was nothing on the faded corner but these letters and words:

wh 12 Take Forked till Tong of west to Big Rock

In the milkman hours we slipped from the hotel and took a car for the Graymount. My rooms were a sight. Some one--and I could put a name to him--had devastated them as a cyclone does a town in the middle West.

The wreckage lay everywhere, tossed hither and thither as the searchers had flung away the articles after an examination. Blythe laughed.

”The middle name of our friend Bothwell must be thorough. He hasn't overlooked anything, by Jove.”

”Oh, well, it's our inning anyhow,” I grinned. ”He didn't get what he wanted, and we know it. We did get what we wanted, and he doesn't know it.” The Englishman flung himself down into a Morris chair and reached for my cigarettes.

”On the whole I rather fancy our new profession, Jack. I wonder if Captain Bothwell will send our photographs to the chief of police for his rogues' gallery.”

CHAPTER VII

IN THE FOG

The day before we sailed I spent an hour aboard the _Argos_ arranging my things in my cabin. While returning in one of the yacht's boats I caught sight through the fog of two figures standing on the wharf.

I had a momentary impression that one of these was our chief engineer, George Fleming, but when I scrambled ash.o.r.e only one of the two was in sight. The one I had taken to be our engineer had sheered off into the fog.

The outline of the other bulked large in the heavy mist, partly because of the big overcoat, no doubt. I had a feeling that I ought to know the man, but it was not until he stepped forward to me that I recognized him.

”A pleasant evening if one doesn't object to fog, Mr. Sedgwick,” he said, lifting his hat and bowing.

”It's you, is it?” I answered, coolly enough.

”Thought I'd drop down and see how you are getting along. The _Argos_ looks like a good sailor. I congratulate you.”