In the darkness it was not quite easy to see more than that the procession had moved into the shadow of a depression in the ground near the pier. Crawling that he might not be seen against the dim skyline, Halstead secured another point of observation. He thought, now, he could make out the outlines of a small building.
“I’ll wait until the crowd gets away from there before I try for a closer look,” thought the young motor boat skipper.
Nor had he long to wait ere the same eight filed by not far from his hiding place. Halstead watched until they were out of sight behind Sanderson’s house.
Then the youthful investigator slipped down the slope and into the shadow. He went cautiously, though, for fear that Don Emilio might have posted a guard below.
There was none, however. Tom found himself staring at what looked like a new boathouse on shore, such as is used for the winter storing of yachts or motor boats. There were no windows. The door, a strong affair, was secured by a padlock.
“If they’re putting the stuff in there and locking it up, then they don’t intend to ship it to-night,” Halstead wisely decided.
He had learned, apparently, all that was to be learned at this point. To keep his eyes upon the case-carrying toilers might mean only to witness a repetition of the same monotonous work through all the night.
“That one bright light up in the attic,” Halstead wondered, the memory of it coming back to him. “I wonder what’s going on up there? And I mean to know, too.”
Satisfied that he knew all about the waterfront business, Halstead took such a wide, curving sweep in getting back to the farmhouse that he ran no risk of running into the busy eight.
Once more he sought the deep shadow of the wagon shed, from which point he stared long and wonderingly.