Scott Randolph suddenly pulled out his watch and looked at it with a worried expression.
“By Jove, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, his face clouding. “I’d forgotten. I can’t stay here another minute—can’t even ask you in. I have a most important—engagement. It’s frightfully inhospitable, but I can’t very well explain. Say, won’t you both come back and take dinner with me at six o’clock? You can spend the evening, and we’ll have a good talk. I can’t tell you how beastly sorry I am.”
Though Dick was rather surprised, nothing of it appeared in his manner.
“Why, I think we can,” he said slowly. “We’ve nothing on for to-night and we might come.”
“That’s splendid!” Randolph exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “Come at six, and I’ll be ready for you.”
He had already picked up the key from where it had dropped to the ground and was fitting it into the lock with feverish haste. The two Yale men started away, when Dick suddenly remembered something.
“Those fellows were filing a bar in one of your windows,” he called back.
Randolph did not turn his head.
“Thanks,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll look after it presently.”
The next instant he had disappeared inside the house, and the steel door closed with a clang which resounded through the rocky gorge. As the two friends hesitated at the entrance to the plateau, they heard the click of the key and the sound of a bolt being shot home. Then silence fell.