"No. Sounded like a milk can or a tin trunk."
The light went on again in the next room, but the men moved away from the window, and Turkey heard no more than odd snatches of conversation which were not relevant to his affairs. Listening proving unprofitable, Turkey softly opened his door and carrying his boots went downstairs. Nobody seemed to be about. He went down a hall to a rear door and slid out into the night. Thence he picked his way through the litter of a back yard to the foot of the flight of steps which led to Mr. Braden's apartments, and leaving his boots at the bottom ascended with great care.
Turkey had identified the object which Mr. Braden had brought back with him as a typewriter in its carrying case. To Turkey it seemed mysterious. Why should Braden who had two perfectly good machines in his office below, go out the back way and bring in a machine from an old shed? It was funny. But he had made up his mind to find out all he could about Braden and his doings, and to start at once. Braden had been playing a crooked game right along. If Turkey could catch him in anything—get something on him—it might help to save the ranch. If not that, it would help him to play even. He put his eye to the crack of the door.
He saw Braden and Godfrey French. They were at a table on which stood a typewriter, and Braden appeared to be signing some legal documents. They were talking, but Turkey could not distinguish words. Presently French rose, folded up some papers and put them in an inner pocket. Braden went with him to the door which was the ordinary entrance to the apartment, and gave upon a hall and flight of stairs leading down to the office.
Turkey went down the outside stairs and put on his boots. He was disappointed in not being able to over-hear their conversation, but he had heard a good deal that night.
What would he do?
CHAPTER XXVII
WHILE SHELLING PEAS
Miss Jean, spick and span in a cool dress of wash fabric, took a critical survey of herself in the mirror, and adjusted a wide shade hat at exactly the right angle. Then, taking a bright tin pan she sallied forth into the afternoon sun. Her course led her back of the house, through the orchard, and finally to a garden patch a couple of acres in extent. There, by a strange coincidence, Chetwood was working among the plants. At sight of her he paused, straightened his back and leaned upon his hoe.