"Of course."
"Then I'll write another message."
Dick knew that when his father was in the habit of going to the metropolis he usually stopped at a large place on Broadway, which I shall call the Outlook Hotel. He accordingly addressed a message to the manager of that hotel, as follows:
"Is Anderson Rover at your hotel? If so, have him telegraph me; otherwise send me word at once."
"Now I guess I'll hear something," thought Dick, as he turned in this telegram and paid for having it transmitted. "Send it Rush, please," he told the operator.
Again there was a wait—this time of nearly half an hour. At last the instrument commenced to click in the telegraph office, and Dick waited anxiously while the man took the message down.
"Is it for me?" he asked. And the man nodded, as he continued to write.
When the sheet was passed over the operator looked curiously at Dick—a look that made the youth's heart sink. With a hand that trembled in spite of his efforts to steady it, the oldest Rover boy held up the paper and read this:
"Anderson Rover was at this hotel until yesterday morning. His baggage is here. Bill unpaid. Left no word.
Thomas A. Garley, Manager."
"Gone!" murmured Dick, brokenly. "'Left no word,' 'Bill unpaid!' What can it mean?"