Wilder and wilder it blew. The snow was so heavy that the boys could not see more than a few feet beyond the window. The chimney was no longer breaking up and the steady thump and clatter of rocks on the roof had ceased. The fireplace was half full of mortar and bits of stone.
“We’d better stay where we are,” said Frank. “We’re safe enough in the kitchen. If that chimney collapses it will mean trouble for any one in the outer room.”
Hanleigh limped over to a chair and sat down.
“Might as well be comfortable,” he muttered.
“Certainly,” agreed Frank. He swung around to face the man. Then, quite calmly, he said: “When did John Sparewell die?”
Hanleigh was taken completely off his guard by the sudden question.
“About eighteen months ago—” he began. Then he halted. “What do you know about John Sparewell?” he demanded.
“We know he was your uncle. And we know he disappeared from Elroy Jefferson’s home with the rosewood box fifteen years ago. We know a lot more than you think, Hanleigh.”
“You found that notebook!” shouted the man.
“Of course.”