“I know what he said, Carrots. Look here! What do you, and Silva, and Woo Sing mean by making such a disturbance on Sunday morning?”
“Dot vas a mishap, Merrivell, und nodding more.”
“Well, don’t let it happen again. Sing, bring up the water. What’s that you just picked up, Silva?”
The Mexican, standing near the uptilted box, had bent down and picked up some object off the ground.
“No sabe, señor,” said he, coming toward Merry and handing over his “find.”
Frank examined it carefully and discovered that it was a small, needle-pointed syringe, a “hypoderm,” such as is used by drug fiends to puncture the arm and inject their slow-working poison into the veins.
“The fellow under the box must have dropped that,” remarked Clancy.
“It’s a cinch that he did,” answered Merry.
“Now I know what that pasty face of his means. He’s a slave of the needle, Chip.”
“Yes,” nodded Frank. “Let’s go back upstairs, Clan,” he added, starting through the hotel and toward the stairs.