“Sh!” he whispered; “I don’t think either of those men is in his room, but we cannot be too careful.”
The night was so sultry that Harvey did not dress, but sat down on the edge of the bed, his caller doing the same, near enough to be touched with the outstretched hand. The time had come for the officer to tell more than was his rule in circumstances of a critical nature.
“How did you succeed?” asked the younger.
“It’s a fizzle so far,” was the reply; “I have inspected that cabin in the woods, where you and I thought the little girl was held a prisoner, but she is not there now and never has been there.”
And then he told his story to the astonished and disappointed listener.
“Understand, no blame attaches to you,” the detective hastened to add; “your mistake was natural and I could have made it as readily as you.”
This was not strictly true. The picture which Bunk Johnson viewed from the biplane would have been analyzed to the point of disclosing the truth, had Pendar been the one who saw it.
“Then I suppose, you will give up the hunt?”
“By no means, but it must end one way or another before we are twenty-four hours older.”
This assertion opened the way for the startling revelation that if Grace Hastings was not recovered before the ensuing midnight, the ransom would be paid by the officer, who had it waiting in the safe of the hotel below stairs.