“Haven’t seen him this morning,” replied the keeper of the resort.
“Do you know where he lives?” went on Hockley. “It’s a matter of importance to him,” he went on, shrewdly.
“He has a room at the Snug Corner, I believe.”
“Where is that?”
“Three squares up the street, on the corner.”
Waiting to hear no more, Hockley strode out and up the street in the direction indicated. It was now ten o’clock, and he had had no breakfast, but just then he had no thought of eating.
Walking into the corridor of the hotel he glanced around. Only a few people were present. Then he glanced into the smoking and reading room.
His heart gave a bound. J. Rutherford Brown was there, smoking contentedly. He had his feet cocked up on a table and was reading a newspaper.
Going up to the man from Montana, Hockley tore the newspaper from his grasp.
“You villain, you!” he cried, wrathfully. “You swindled me!”