“No!” shouted Ross. “I didn’t see any one. I didn’t see anything. I never heard of your Ives. Go and ask some one else. I’m busy!”
“I don’t want to bother you,” said the stranger, grown very mild. “I can see you’re busy. But it’s a pretty serious thing. You see, Ives came to Stamford on Tuesday. I’ve traced him that far. And after that—he’s disappeared.”
“Well, do you think I’ve got him hidden here?”
“My name’s Donnelly,” the stranger went on. “And I’ve come out here to find Ives.”
“All right! I wish you luck!”
“I don’t know,” said Donnelly, thoughtfully. “Maybe it won’t be so lucky—for some people.”
He was not looking at Ross now; his cold blue eyes were staring straight before him.
“But I think I’ll find him, all the same,” he declared, gently.
“Ives was the man under the sofa,” thought Ross.