He was determined to play a bold game now. It was near the end, he believed, and there was no time for dilly-dallying. He must chance all on a single throw. True, he might be mistaken, but the signs of the trail looked good.
“Yes, they are here,” replied the hotel clerk. “The boy was quite ill, but I believe he is better now. He was sick on the water, they said. Italians, all of them, if I’m any judge. They spoke of getting a doctor, and if you——”
“I’ll go right up!” exclaimed Larry, anxious to take advantage of the clerk’s half-formed idea.
“Front!” called the clerk, ringing a bell to summon a boy to escort Larry to the room of the strangers.
“Never mind. I can find my way if you tell me the number,” interrupted the young reporter. For the work he had in hand he wanted no bell-boy to announce his coming.
“All right,” spoke the clerk indifferently. “Room ten on the first floor. It’s in the rear.”
“They always seem to choose the rear,” mused Larry, as he started up the stairs, for there was no elevator. The hotel was little more than a boarding house. “Always the rear. They want to be in a position to escape if they have to, I guess, as Parloti did before, down the fire-escape.
“I wonder if I’ll find him here? His name wasn’t on the register, though of course he wouldn’t go under that name now.” Larry had had a brief glance at the hotel book, and saw where the three strangers had registered. The names were not familiar to him.
The hall of the first floor was not well lighted, but Larry could make out the numbers on the doors of the rooms. He paused for a moment in front of Number Ten, and listened. He heard a low, sobbing sound, and then a voice spoke angrily in Italian. It was a man’s voice. Another answered.
There was a brief and somewhat heated conversation. Then came more sobs—sobs in the tone of a boy! Larry gritted his teeth. He heard a boy’s voice pleading, and a man’s answering in passion.