“Well, what am I going to do with him?” his son asked impatiently.
“I do not know, Arthur. You think he was prowling around to find that cup?”
“Oh, of course!” cried the son, wearily. “That cup has cost me more anxiety than anything I ever had anything to do with in my life!”
“That is entirely your own fault, Arthur. If you had not been so dishonest all of your life you wouldn’t be in such a fix.”
“Don’t preach to me, father,” snapped the son, angrily.
“It is too bad I didn’t preach to you when you were smaller, instead of filling your pockets with money that you didn’t have the sense to take care of. Where is the cup now?”
“I threw it in the closet in my study, at the end of the hall,” was the answer, which sent a thrill of hope through Don.
There was a rustle inside the room, much as though someone was getting out of bed. “Tomorrow we’ll dispose of that cup by melting it in the furnace,” said the elder Gates. “Wait until I get a bathrobe on and we’ll go up and interview that young man in the billiard room.”
Don waited to hear no more. Arthur Gates had given him the clue he needed and like a shot he darted off down the hall to the room at the end. This was the room which tallied with the brief description the man had given, but Don poked his head carefully in the door before entering, as he did not wish to walk into anyone’s bedroom.
But it was a small study which lay before him. In the dim light which flooded in from the hall he could see the outline of a table, an easy chair and a pile of books on the table. On the other side of the room he made out a door. He entered the room and made his way to it, finding it slightly open. At that moment he heard the two Gates leave the room of the older man and begin to mount the stairs to the third floor.