“We’ll discuss that later on, boys,” the millionaire interrupted.
“I would give a considerable to know,” the manager observed, in a moment, “just who handled the messages which were left at the hotel counter last night. And I’m going to do my best to find out!” he added.
“That ought to be a perfectly simple matter,” suggested Mr. Havens.
“In New York, yes! In Quito, no!” answered the manager. “A good many of the natives who are in clerical positions here are crooked enough to live in a corkscrew. They’ll do almost anything for money.”
“That’s the idea I had already formed of the people,” Ben cut in.
“Besides,” the manager continued, “the chances are that the night clerk tumbled down on a sofa somewhere in the lobby and slept most of the night, leaving bell-boys and subordinates to run the hotel.”
“In that event,” Mr. Havens said, “the telegrams might have been handled by half a dozen different people.”
“I’m afraid so!” replied the manager.
“But the code!” suggested Ben. “They couldn’t read them!”
“But they might copy them for some one who could!” argued the manager. “And the copies might have been sent out to the field for the express purpose of having them stolen,” he went on with an anxious look on his face. “Are they very important?” he asked of the millionaire.