“Let me have it quick, then, please,” Tom begged, turning upon the messenger from the Tampa post office.
“Sign, first,” requested the messenger.
This Tom did in a hurry, then seized upon his letter. It was postmarked at Tres Arbores, and the boy remembered the writing. The letter was from Clayton Randolph, and repeated, in a more emphatic manner, the news that the officer had already sent Halstead while he was at the lake.
“I’m sending this just as you ask,” Randolph ran on, “though I don’t suppose it’s necessary, because at the same time I sent you the other letter, I dropped one for Mr. Tremaine in the Tres Arbores post office. Of course he got it on his return to this town.”
“Of course he didn’t!” blazed Tom inwardly. “Oliver Dixon got the mail there, and he was smart enough to keep Randolph’s letter from ever reaching Mr. Tremaine.”
“Something interesting that you have?” smiled Joe, watching his chum’s face.
“Interesting?” palpitated Tom Halstead. “Well, rather! Now, where’s Mr. Tremaine?”—as the boys turned away from the desk.
“Speaking of angels,” returned Joe Dawson. “There he is coming in through the doorway yonder.”
“I’ve got to see him on the jump, then. Come along.”
“What’s this?” demanded Henry Tremaine, as Tom almost breathlessly thrust into his hands the letter just received.