“Who is the man most interested in shifting the blame to my shoulders?” he asked in a hard voice. “Whom have we suspected? Under whose car did I pick up this paper?”
“Stovebridge!”
The word came in a smothered roar from the lips of the irate Texan, and, turning swiftly, he started toward the clubhouse, his face flushed with rage and his eyes flashing.
“Stop! Come back, Brad,” Dick called. “You must not do anything now. We have no real proof; he would deny everything.”
Buckhart hesitated and then came slowly back to the shed. Dick went over to his own car and pulled out a couple of bags from the tonneau.
“Don’t worry, you untamed Maverick of the Pecos,” he said with a half smile. “We’ll get him right before very long.”
He folded the paper and put it carefully away in his breast pocket.
“I’ve got this, for one thing,” he went on, “and I also have an idea in my head which I think will come to something.”