“We’re not out of the wood yet, by a long shot,” Merriwell returned. “I have a notion that this Lawford will be more of a proposition to bring around. By this time he must have the bills of the Arcadian play, and your friend Bryton has learned about your leasing the Concert Hall. He’s probably paid Lawford well for running his bills in ahead of yours.”
“I’m afraid so,” Demarest agreed. “But it’s the limit, when I made the bargain with him first.”
“Still, Lawford gets all of his business from the trust, and he can’t afford to have them down on him,” Dick said. “However, I think we can manage it some way.”
Reaching the billposter’s place of business, they found that the proprietor had gone, leaving one of his men to shut up the place.
“You don’t know where he can be found, then?” Dick questioned.
The fellow shook his head.
“He didn’t say. Likely he’s home, though.”
“Where does he live?” Merriwell asked.
“Down to West Haven.”
Dick considered a moment. That was a good ways off, and it was extremely questionable whether the results of a trip down there would repay the effort. He had a pretty accurate notion that the billposter had been primed by Ralph Bryton. As he hesitated, he looked swiftly about the office, and his eyes lit up suddenly as they fell upon the great piles of paper stacked in one corner. On the top sheet he caught a glimpse of the words, “Fenwick, of Yale.”