"He didn't steal the wooden hand," said Mask, when he parted from Allen, "but he is evidently in with the gang."
"What gang, Mr. Mask?"
"That headed by the old gentleman who called on me. Jerry is one of the gang, and this boy Butsey another. He sent that telegram, remember. If you can find the lad you may learn much, and perhaps may get back the hand."
"But what good will that do?" asked Allen, puzzled; "from what my father said when you read the anonymous letter, he evidently knew that the hand can be opened. If, as he says, it contains his secret, he must have opened it himself when he took it home, and before he buried it."
Mask wrinkled his brows and shook his head. "I confess that I cannot understand," he remarked hopelessly, "nor will I, until your father is more frank with me. This is one reason why I am taking him myself to Wargrove. When I get him there I may induce him to tell me his secret."
"It must be a very serious secret to make him behave as he does."
Mask sighed. "I repeat that I can't understand. I have known your father all his life. We were boys together, and I also knew Strode. But although your father was always foolish, I can't think that he would do anything likely to bring him within reach of the law."
"He stole the wooden hand, at all events," said Allen grimly.
"Out of sheer terror, I believe, and that makes me think that his secret, for the preservation of which he robbed the dead, is more serious than we think. However I'll see what I can learn, and failing your father, I shall ask Giles Merry."
"Do you think he knows?"