“No, he ain’t here, that’s sure,” replied Gunwagner; “but if it was the newsboy, you can be sure he will show up again in a way not very good for us.”
“So I think,” assented Mortimer.
“Then we must capture him, that’s all.”
“I wish we could. You see he might go to old Goldwin again, and tell him he saw me here.”
“Yes, or go to the police headquarters and raise a row,” suggested Gunwagner, gloomily.
“I didn’t think of that. Well, as you say, the only thing for us to do is to capture him and get him where he won’t make trouble for us.”
“The whole game will be lost, and we will be pulled by the police unless we do so.”
“You might’s well count your game lost, then,” said Bob to himself, for he had now renewed hope of carrying through his scheme. But he was nearly paralyzed with pain, from the cramped and uncomfortable position in which he had remained so long. He felt, however, that he was doing a great detective act, so he bore up under his sufferings with heroic fortitude.
“Suppose the police should drop on us, and find Randolph in the cellar?” suggested young Mortimer.
The thought evidently alarmed old Gunwagner. His face and whole manner showed that it did.