“That old hitching weight of yours!” cried Tom, in a gasping undertone, as he saw Hank slip that heavy iron object from the bag to a hiding place under his coat. “How on earth do you happen to have that thing with you?”
“It must have been a private tip from the skies,” grinned Hank, “but I saw the thing lying in the motor room and I picked it up and slipped it into this satchel. Take the bag from me and I’ll get out on the porch.”
All this took place so quietly that the clerk at the desk noticed nothing. Halstead now carried the empty bag as he sauntered back to the party. But he found chance to whisper to Joe:
“Anson Dalton must be in this hotel. Hank is slipping out to watch the front of the house. Hadn’t you better get around to the rear? If it happens that the fellow is about to leave here, it might be worth our while to know where he goes.”
Nodding, Joe quietly slipped away. The negro with the red bag had now entered the 232 office. The bag, however, he took over to the coat-room and left it there.
“Breakfast will be ready at any time after eight o’clock, gentlemen,” announced the clerk.
Powell Seaton lighted a cigar, remaining standing by the desk. Tom stood close by. The door of the office opened. Anson Dalton, puffing at a cigarette, his gaze resting on the floor, entered. He was some ten feet into the room before he looked up, to encounter the steady gaze of Captain Halstead and the charter-man.
Starting ever so little, paling just a bit, Dalton returned that steady regard for a few seconds, then looked away with affected carelessness.
“Going to leave us to-day, Mr. Dalton?” inquired the clerk.
“I don’t know,” replied the scoundrel, almost sulkily. Then, lighting a fresh cigarette, he strolled over by one of the windows. Presently, without looking backward at the captain and charter-man of the “Restless,” the fellow opened a door and stepped out onto the porch. There he promptly recognized Hank Butts, who stared back at him with interest.