“No; there’s nothing here,” admitted Halstead, at last. “At least, the only thing we’re interested in isn’t here.”
“Of course it isn’t,” moaned Seaton. “Yet you boys were the only ones I told. And, the only time I left the house, it was safe upon my return. I also told you boys that.”
“If he keeps on talking in that strain,” muttered Hank, half-aloud, “I’ll make his head ache!”
“No, you won’t,” uttered Captain Tom, gripping his comrade’s arm almost fiercely. “There’s trouble enough on the premises as it is. Hold your tongue, Hank, until we’re all in a good mood to say pleasant things.”
Thereupon, with a snort, Hank dragged a chair into a far corner, and seated himself in it.
Halstead walked slowly to the table, on which Mr. Seaton was resting his elbows, his face buried in his hands.
“There must be some explanation for this, Mr. Seaton,” began the young motor boat skipper, more calmly. “I don’t mind your first suspicion of me, because––”
“Not you, more than the others,” broke in the bungalow’s owner, excitedly. “All of you 107 young men knew about the hiding-place. You were the only ones besides myself who did know.”
Again Hank gripped his fists tightly, but a stern look from Joe Dawson prevented Butts from giving any further expression of his feelings.
“Don’t sit there like that, Mr. Seaton,” broke in Tom Halstead, once more. “Whatever has happened, something must be done—and it must be the right thing, and at once.”