What he saw did not give him satisfaction just then, for Bart was sitting at a little table, writing swiftly.
“Pshaw!” thought Vance. “He’s writing a letter—that’s all! He isn’t doing anything out of the way.”
The fellow was filled with disappointment. Still he continued to stand on the chair and watch the youth within the room.
After a time Bart finished his writing. He took out his watch and looked at it, muttering:
“I must hurry if I want to catch that train.”
Vance pricked up his ears. He knew nothing of the quarrel between Merriwell and Hodge, if quarrel it could be called, and still instinct told him that something was wrong.
“Wonder why he’s going to catch a train?” he speculated.
Hodge had risen, leaving what he had written on the table. He now picked up Frank Merriwell’s leather grip.
“It’s a good thing I know how to spring this lock,” said Hodge, “else I’d not be able to get out of Atchison unless I walked, and I’d do that before I would stay here now. I have cut clear from everybody now, and I’m going to go it alone in the future. If I go to the dogs who cares!”
The eyes of the spy beyond the transom began to glitter and he was in a flutter of excitement. Now he was certain that Hodge was up to something crooked, and he eagerly awaited developments.