He broke off abruptly as he turned his head and looked into Dick Merriwell’s cool, slightly smiling eyes. A sudden rush of color flamed into his face, and, with a quick drawn breath, he half rose from his chair.
“What’s the matter?” asked Marston.
Then, following the direction of the other’s fascinated gaze, he too, saw the Yale man, and scowled fiercely.
“Come in and let’s get a drink,” he said abruptly. “I need a bracer.”
Stovebridge got up a little unsteadily, and the two vanished in the direction of the buffet.
Dick looked significantly at the Texan.
“What do you think of that, Brad?” he asked quietly.
“Huh!” grunted Buckhart contemptuously. “The onery varmit’s sure a whole lot shy of you, pard. If he isn’t the coyote you’re looking for, I’ll eat my hat. You hear me gently warble!”
Merriwell gazed thoughtfully out of the window.
“I wonder what was in that package,” he mused. “And I wonder too, where this Marston comes in.”