“No,” Larry conceded. “She looked surprised and—well—uncomfortable.”
Bob got up and moved toward the door beside the hearth. “Let’s see what’s in here, Larry,” he suggested, trying the door.
It opened, admitting him to a small bedroom, furnished as barely as the rest of the lodge. It held a cot-bed, a table and chair, some wooden pegs driven in the wall, from which hung a curtain covering some clothing, and a few ornaments of skins and weapons.
“May we come?” asked Lucy, when Bob and Larry had entered.
“Yes, come along,” Bob called.
“Not much to see,” said Larry, drawing back the red curtain from the single window. “Hello, it’s stopped snowing. Perhaps you won’t have to spend the night here, Bob.”
“I never meant to,” said Bob, looking curiously about him.
The cot had two heavy blankets folded upon it, and a wolf-skin stretched on the floor beside it. Several suits of clothing hung half-concealed behind the folds of calico, and some dog-collars dangled from the wooden pegs.
“I’m glad he took out the dogs,” said Larry, fingering a nail-studded collar. “Johann von Eckhardt,” he read inside it. “That’s his name, all right. I dare say he’s too proud of it to hide it. Bob, we ought easily to find out all about him.”
“I’ve already written Dick Harding to ask him what he knows,” said Bob. “He’s in the Intelligence Department now, and has tabs on a lot of them. Look, here’s a uniform.”