Rather less than twenty-four hours later Dick Merriwell entered the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel and walked directly to the desk.
“Anything for me on that last mail, Fred?” he asked.
The clerk turned to the rack behind him.
“I believe there is, Mr. Merriwell,” he answered. “Yes, here it is. Only one, though.”
“That’s all I was expecting,” he returned.
He walked slowly from the desk, tearing open the envelope as he went. Close by the door he stopped to glance through the several sheets it contained.
“He’s well and flourishing, that’s one good thing,” he murmured. “It’s so long since the last letter that I was beginning—— By Jove, what a peculiar coincidence!”
Without pausing to read further, he folded the letter hastily and hurried out of the door and down the steps. Waiting at the curb stood the Wizard in the front seat of which was Brad Buckhart. Letter in hand, Merriwell sprang up beside him.
“Say, Brad,” he began eagerly, “talking about coincidences, I’ve got one here that beats the Dutch. Do you remember that interesting scrap of conversation we couldn’t help hearing last night in the dining room?”
“I sure do,” the Texan returned promptly. “The one between the dressy little Jew and the pudgy gent with the china-blue eyes, you mean?”