“I don’t know who they were. One was a medium-sized Jew, very carefully dressed; the other a stout man with a fat face and small blue eyes. The expression on his face was like that of a peevish baby. They both looked like men of importance.”
“Marcus Meyer!” Randolph exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “I don’t know the other one, but Meyer controls the diamond trade in the Middle West. They don’t really know; they only guess. But even if they were sure, they would keep it quiet for their own sakes.”
Buckhart strolled toward them at that moment.
“You folks must have Frank talked to death,” he drawled.
“We’ve just finished,” the older man said, with a smile, as he rose from the couch. “Would you boys like to look about upstairs?”
In one breath the Yale men expressed their readiness, following their host out into the hall and up the broad stairs. Randolph touched a button at the top of the flight which flooded the upper hall with light. The next instant Dick thought he heard him draw a sudden, quick breath. Buckhart heard nothing, for he had dived promptly into an open door close to the head of the stairs.
“Any light in here?” he called.
Scott Randolph hesitated for the fraction of a second and then pressed a button on the wall.
“By George!” the Texan exclaimed. “This is sure a funny room. What’s it for, anyhow?”
Stepping to the door, Dick looked in. The room was a small one, not more than twelve feet square, and had neither doors nor windows, nor any other opening save the entrance. It was absolutely bare of furnishings, with not even a shelf on the wall nor a scrap of paper on the floor. There was nothing but the four walls of gray stone.