About ten o’clock next morning Brose Stovebridge and his friend Marston were sitting together in the latter’s favorite corner of the Clover Club veranda.
Considering the crowd of the day before, the place seemed deserted. One man, absorbed in the morning paper, lounged at the far end of the veranda, and a foursome was just teeing off on the links across the drive; but otherwise there was no one in sight.
Presently the deaf mute, shouldering a rake, came around the corner of the house and began to rake up the roadway.
Fred Marston yawned.
“Deuced dull this morning,” he drawled.
“Little early yet for any one to be around,” Stovebridge returned absently.
He was dressed much as he had been the day before, except that he wore a cloth cap of medium black and white check, obviously new.
“Cap worked to a charm, didn’t it?” Marston remarked after a moment’s pause. “I saw Merriwell taking it in when we drove up, and it stumped him, all right. He’d be surprised to learn that I bought it yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, it’s got him guessing all right,” the other answered. “He may suspect what he likes, but he can’t prove anything on me now.”
Despite the athlete’s assumption of nonchalance, there was an underlying note of anxiety in his voice which Marston seemed to notice.