Johnson was back in a few minutes and reported that he could not find even a pebble on the track. He had questioned the dumb fellow, Hanlon, who was raking up near the clubhouse, and found that he had not yet touched anything on the track.
“I must have been mistaken, then,” Dick said lightly. “It was just pure carelessness.”
He took a shower and then dressed and limped into the reception hall with Buckhart and Niles, who had waited for him.
A group of men were talking in the centre of the room, and Niles stepped aside for a moment to speak to one of them, leaving Merriwell and the Texan standing close beside one of the big windows which opened on the veranda.
Brose Stovebridge was lounging in a wicker chair just outside, and as Dick noticed him he saw a look of eager interest flash into the fellow’s eyes, which were turned toward the drive.
A moment later Fred Marston came in sight, walking rapidly along the veranda, and presently stopped beside his friend’s chair.
“Well, did you get it?” the latter asked eagerly.
“Sure, I did,” returned Marston with a smile.
He pulled a small parcel wrapped in brown paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stovebridge, who almost snatched it out of his hand.
“Ah,” he breathed in a tone of relief. “I guess that will settle his hash. He can suspect all he wants——”