Returning to the hotel, Dick drove around to the garage very slowly; and, instead of running the car in, he slid up to the curb and stopped. Then he turned in his seat and eyed Buckhart questioningly without saying a word.
“Well, why not?” the Texan inquired suddenly, apparently apropos of nothing on earth. “I’m sure curious to know how it all came out.”
Dick laughed as he guided the car slowly down the street again.
“Evidently we haven’t either of us been successful in getting Randolph out of our heads,” he said. “We’ll just take a run out and see if I can get hold of my pocketbook this time.”
The swift twilight was just beginning to fall as they hurried up the narrow track and reached the open space before the stone house.
If they expected to find any signs of life about the place they were disappointed. The same grim, menacing wall of stone confronted them, from the same desolate, shadowy background. The steel door was as tightly closed as ever, the barred windows as expressionless. But wait! Were they quite the same?
Dick’s eyes were fixed on the end window on the second floor.
“Take a good look at that shutter up there, Brad,” he said in a low tone. “It looks to me as though it were open about an inch, but this dim light is beastly deceptive.”
The Texan studied it for an instant.
“You’re right,” he said quickly. “It is open the least bit. Some one’s been there since this morning, all right.”