Ronnie agreed that he did. Except for a slight throbbing in his head, he felt as well as he had before the accident.
They hurried down the cobblestone road, using their flashlights only when they needed them to find the way. They approached Caldwell’s cottage cautiously. Light was shining from the two windows that faced the path.
“Let’s take a peek in the window first,” Bill whispered. “You know—see what he’s doing before he gets wise that we’re here.”
They crept noiselessly to the window and peered over the sill. Caldwell was seated before a small table that held his typewriter and a kerosene lamp. He was busily at work.
Bill leaned over to whisper in Ronnie’s ear. “Boy, either he’s real sneaky or else he wasn’t ever out of the building,” he said. “He looks as if he’d been at work for hours.”
“Maybe he has been,” Ronnie said. But if Caldwell wasn’t their man, why had he turned so instinctively when Ronnie had called out his name?
“Let’s go in and have a talk with him just the same,” Bill suggested. “But don’t let him know we suspect him of anything.”
Caldwell opened the door to them after Bill had knocked. “Well!” he exclaimed, motioning for them to come in. “How did you know I was just itching for a little company?”
The two boys sat down on the edge of his cot.
Caldwell turned his chair away from his typewriter to sit facing them. “What are you doing down here at this time of the night?”