Before Sam Appleby left the next morning, he confided to Keefe that he had little if any faith in the detective prowess of the two men investigating the case.
“When I come back,” he said, “I may bring a real detective, and—I may not. I want to think this thing over first—and, though I may be a queer Dick, I’m not sure I want the slayer of my father found.”
“I see,” and Keefe nodded his head understandingly.
But Jeffrey Allen demurred. “You say that, Mr. Appleby, because you think one of the Wheeler family is the guilty party. But I know better. I know them so well——”
“Not as well as I do,” interrupted Appleby, “and neither do you know all the points of the feud that has festered for so many years. If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Allen, you’ll delay action until my return, at least.”
“The detectives won’t do that,” objected Jeffrey.
“The detectives will run round in circles and get nowhere,” scoffed Appleby. “I shall be back as soon as possible, and I don’t mind telling you now that there will be no election campaign for me.”
“What!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe. “You’re out of the running?”
“Positively! I may take it up again some other year, but this campaign will not include my name.”
“My gracious!” exclaimed Genevieve, who knew a great deal about current politics. “Who’ll take your place?”