"I 'll be right here," she answered, and with that assurance, he followed the other two men out into the night.
Far down the street, where the rather bleak outlines of the hotel showed bleaker than ever in the frigid night, a light was gleaming in a second-story window. Mason turned to his fellow sheriff.
"He usually stays there. That must be him—waiting for the kid."
"Then we 'd better hurry—before somebody springs the news."
The three entered, to pass the drowsy night clerk, examine the register and to find that their conjecture had been correct. Tiptoeing, they went to the door and knocked. A high-pitched voice came from within.
"That you, Maurice?"
Fairchild answered in the best imitation he could give.
"Yes. I 've got Anita with me."
Steps, then the door opened. For just a second, Squint Rodaine stared at them in ghastly, sickly fashion. Then he moved back into the room, still facing them.
"What's the idea of this?" came his forced query. Fairchild stepped forward.