He then gave a rather truthful account of the meeting in the woods, of the seizure of the auto and of its abandonment, as Bolton supposed.
“I don’t like the sound of that story,” said Rexford, uneasily.
“Nor do I, either,” agreed Justin Bolton. “Still, the boys don’t know the most important part of what they’d like to find out—where Frank Delavan is. And, now, Rexford, how has Delavan been behaving?”
“Naturally, he hasn’t been giving us any trouble,” laughed Rexford. “We haven’t given him any chance.”
“I think I’ll take a look at him; though, mind you, he mustn’t have the slightest glimpse of me.”
“I think that can be easily arranged,” replied the red-haired one. “But did the boys, this afternoon, hear your name?”
“I don’t believe they did,” replied Bolton, stepping out of the car. “It might disarrange our plans some if they did happen to know my name.”
The next words, spoken by Rexford, were not distinguishable to Tom Halstead, crouching under that rear seat. He raised the lid somewhat as soon as he was satisfied that the two speakers were moving away.
The car had been run in under a shed, open at one end. Bolton and Rexford being out of sight, Tom softly raised the lid, cushions and all, then replaced the leather cushions and leaped hastily to the ground.
The shed had been built onto a barn that was now rather dilapidated. Two hundred feet beyond the barn was an old, spacious house of two stories. Toward this the two men were walking.