“What became of you?” inquired Dicky. “We looked around for you for an hour, and were afraid you had been carried off.”
“That's all right, Dicky,” I said. “I know how I got out. What I want to know is how I got in—taken in.”
“I don't know,” said Dicky anxiously. “I was regularly fooled, myself. I thought they were fishermen, all right enough, and I never thought that Terrill had the nerve to come in there. I was fooled by his disguise, and he gave the word, and I thought sure that Richmond had sent him.” Dicky had dropped all banter, and was speaking with the tone of sincerity.
“Well, it's all right now, but I don't want any more slips of that sort. Who was hurt?”
“Trent got a bad cut in the side. One of the Terrill gang was shot. I heard it was only through the arm or leg, I forget which.”
I was consumed with the desire to ask what had become of Borton's, but I suspected that I was supposed to know, and prudently kept the question to myself.
“Well, come along,” said I. “The room will do well enough now. Oh, here's a ten, and I'll let you know as soon as I get the rest. Where can I find you?”
“At the old place,” said Dicky; “three twenty-six.”
“Clay?” I asked in desperation. Dicky gave me a wondering look as though he suspected my mind was going.
“No—Geary. What's the matter with you?”