“Fine!” exclaimed Merry scornfully. “A fat lot Lenning was doing for his half brother.”
“That night,” proceeded Bleeker, “Billy Shoup faded out of Gold Hill, and no one in town has heard anything about him since. That’s why I called him the mysterious Billy Shoup.”
“Regular gambler, wasn’t he?”
“He didn’t look it. Rather youngish, he was—nineteen or twenty—and he had a mop of hair about the color of tow. That’s all, Merriwell,” and Bleeker drew a long breath. “I’ve got it off my chest, at last. Jumping sandhills, what a fix a little gambling and drinking will get a fellow into! I had my lesson, and I’ll bet El had his. If Darrel hadn’t been a bit wild, he’d never have got mixed up in that forgery trouble.”
“And the night you were with Shoup, Jode Lenning was—where?”
“At home with the colonel, reading to him in his study. He was doing the dutiful, you see, and going to bed early.”
“Doing the dutiful for a purpose,” commented Merriwell scathingly.
“That’s what I think. He got Shoup to come on and throw the hooks into El—that’s the way I size it up.”
“How can it be proved?”
“Search me. That’s where your star play comes in, Merriwell. It’s up to you to find Billy Shoup and make him talk. I’ve given you all the facts I have, and you’re welcome to go ahead and use them.”