The knife had disappeared and Hanlon was writing, again.
Desperately, as a drowning man clutches a straw, Stovebridge snatched at the paper.
“What’s the name of the feller that came with three others in that car.”
Puzzled, the clubman looked at Hanlon and found him pointing at Dick Merriwell’s touring car. What did he mean? What could he want with Merriwell? Was it possible that he did not really know—that he wanted to get proof from the Yale man before proceeding with his murderous attack?
“Why do you want to know?” he faltered.
The other seized the paper from the man’s trembling fingers, wrote three words and thrust it back.
“He killed Amy.”
As Stovebridge read the short sentence, he could have shouted with joy. Hanlon did not know the truth, after all. For some unaccountable reason he suspected Merriwell. Perhaps it was because the Yale man had carried the child into the house; anyhow it did not matter, so long as he himself was safe.
Then another thought flashed into his mind. The fellow suspected Merriwell—not only suspected, but was convinced. He would try to kill the Yale man, and perhaps succeed. Well, what of that? With Merriwell out of the way Stovebridge would be safe—quite safe. No one else had the slightest suspicion.
He took the pencil out of the deaf mute’s hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation wrote, on the bottom of the paper: