“Hodgson.”
“Ah, yes. Hodgson. Is he no longer there?”
“I felt he needed a vacation,” replied Bob, indulgently. “He felt my uncle’s death very severely. So I told him to enjoy a rest.”
“Very considerate indeed,” assented Thaddeus Westcott, approvingly.
“Betty Mandell has also gone away,” added Bob. “The old house seemed to worry her, without my uncle there. She has taken a trip to Florida.”
“I expect to go to Florida to-morrow,” observed Westcott. “Perhaps I shall meet her there.”
“Perhaps,” said Bob, in a peculiar tone which the old man did not notice.
“Let me explain what I have to tell you,” said Thaddeus Westcott. “Before I begin, I must mention that it is for your ears alone.
“I did not wish Mr. Mallory to be here to learn what I have to say; I simply wanted to be sure of your identity, Mr. Galvin. So if Mr. Mallory will—”
Hiram Mallory started to rise from the table. Bob stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“Stay right here,” he said.
“No, no, Robert,” returned Mallory. “This may be a private matter—”
“Stay here,” insisted Bob. He turned to Thaddeus Westcott. “You have no objections to Mr. Mallory’s presence if I am satisfied?”
“Not in the least,” declared Westcott. “That is for you to decide. I can only say that I have something important to tell you pertaining to your uncle—”
“In which case,” interrupted Bob, “I think that Mr. Mallory should remain with us.”
“Very well,” said Westcott.
He drew an envelope from his pocket and held it between his hands.
“When Theodore Galvin left the country he gave this envelope to me,” Westcott began. “He showed me the paper it contains, and then he sealed the envelope. He did not, however, explain the significance of the paper.
“He stated that if he needed my assistance in a certain matter — which he did not specify — he would communicate with me, so that I might understand what the paper meant.
“I did not hear from him before he died. So I have felt it my duty to turn over this paper to Theodore Galvin’s heir — namely, his nephew, Robert Galvin.”
The old man tore open the end of the envelope and drew forth the paper. He unfolded it and scanned it as though to make sure that it was the same sheet that had been intrusted to him. He then laid the paper on the table.
Both his companions stared at it curiously.
In the center of the sheet of paper appeared the same row of cryptic characters that had been inscribed on the slip which Reynold Barker had gained and lost that night when he had searched so eagerly.
It was an exact duplication of Theodore Galvin’s one mysterious message. It contained no other mark.
THADDEUS WESTCOTT looked at his companions and nodded his head at their perplexity. Bob examined the paper and gave it to Hiram Mallory, who studied it with curious interest.
Suddenly Mallory raised his head and folded the paper as he did so. The other men looked up.
A waiter was standing by, holding a tray which contained cups of coffee. The man’s approach had not been noticed by the diners.
Mallory was annoyed. He was sure that the waiter had glimpsed the message on the sheet of paper. But a glance at the man’s dull, expressionless face reassured him.
The waiter could scarcely have overheard more than a few snatches of the conversation. Mallory held the paper folded while the waiter placed the coffee on the table.
“Bring me the check,” ordered Westcott, in a querulous tone.
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, in a thick, foreign accent.
He drew a pad from his pocket and moved a few paces away while he tried to figure out the total of the dinners.
Both Bob and Mallory watched him intently. They smiled as they observed the man’s stupidity. It was obvious that he could scarcely add up figures.
The waiter completed his task. He laid three slips in front of Thaddeus Westcott, who signed them. He handed the man a dollar bill as a tip.
“Don’t disturb us again,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
The waiter shambled away. Bob grinned as Hiram Mallory reopened the paper. The three men began to study the cryptic characters once more.
In the kitchen, the stupid-looking waiter retired to a corner. There, he looked at the pad which he held in his hand.
He smiled. On the pad was a duplication of the characters which appeared on the paper held by Hiram Mallory. The man had quickly drawn them from memory while he had been pretending to add up the amounts on the dinner checks.
The waiter removed his coat. In the obscure corner, he rubbed his hands over his face and surveyed the result in a small mirror that hung on the wall. From a locker, he produced another coat and vest.
He pocketed the paper with its duplicate inscription. He walked unobserved from the kitchen. When he reappeared, in the lobby, he was none other than George Clarendon, wealthy member of the Cobalt Club.
IT was nearly ten minutes later when Bob appeared in the lobby. He looked about him, as one unfamiliar with the place, and spied a telephone booth in a corner. He entered the booth and put in a call.
While he was there, Clarendon arose leisurely, passed by the booth, and descended the stairs toward the billiard room. He paused on the deserted steps and leaned close against the rail. To his keen ear came the low voice of the man at the telephone.
“Hello… I’m at the Cobalt Club… With Thaddeus Westcott. He’s leaving shortly. He expects to go home… You understand? He lives out on Long Island… His car is here in town… Goes over Queensboro Bridge… Yes, I’m staying in town… All right, see you later.”
Bob left the booth and returned to the grillroom. Soon he came into the lobby again, accompanied by Hiram Mallory and Thaddeus Westcott. The latter was speaking.
“I have wondered about it, gentlemen,” he said, “but I cannot understand its purpose. The information is undoubtedly important—”
Hiram Mallory tapped him significantly upon the arm. Westcott understood. There were other persons here in the lobby. He nodded and ended his conversation.
“Good evening,” he said, as he shook hands with his companions.
“A good trip South,” replied Mallory.
Thaddeus Westcott turned toward the door. He happened to notice George Clarendon who was standing near by.
“Hello, Thad,” greeted Clarendon.
“Hello, George!”
“Going home?”
“Yes.”
“Why not drop me at my apartment? You go by it.”
“I’ll be glad to, George. Come along, come along. My car is outside.”
The two men walked out together. Bob watched them as they passed through the revolving door. His eyes were keen and a shrewd smile appeared upon his lips as he gazed at the departing form of Thaddeus Westcott.
CHAPTER XIII
THADDEUS WESTCOTT rubbed his forehead uneasily. The motion of the limousine seemed to disturb him. He reached for the speaking tube that communicated with the chauffeur.
“Drive more slowly, Craig,” he said.
It was the second time that he had given the order. The speed of the car dwindled to a snail’s pace. Westcott leaned back in the cushions of the seat.
“Not feeling so well?” questioned George Clarendon.
“No,” replied Westcott. “I’m a bit dizzy, George. Perhaps it was a cup of coffee that I drank after dinner. It tasted a bit unusual. I seem to be feeling worse every minute.”
“It would be absurd for you to go out to Long Island,” declared Clarendon. “Why don’t you stop at the Thermon Hotel overnight? Doctor Geoffrey is house physician there. I’ll tell him to take care of you.”