“You’ll write more threatening letters, I suppose,” said Larry boldly.
“No, señor!” cried the man. “I never wrote you any letter, nor did I tell any one to. We of the Parloti race do not threaten—we act!” and there was that in his voice, and in the sinister look he cast at the young reporter, to show that he meant what he said. But Larry was not afraid.
The days dragged on, and there was no news. Larry was at his wits’ ends for clews, and for news to print about the case. Most of the other papers had dropped the kidnapping story, or, at best, used only a few lines concerning it. But Larry would not give up. Nor did the police, for it was rather a reflection on them that, under their very noses, a boy had been kidnapped and they could not get a clew to him.
“Well, anything new to-day?” asked Larry of Detective Nyler, when on a visit to police headquarters one afternoon.
“There sure is,” was the unexpected answer.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve gotten something out of Parloti?” exclaimed the young reporter.
“No, and none of us will for a long time, I fancy. He’s skipped out.”
“That’s it, and he went suddenly, too, last night. I was watching the hotel off and on. I saw him come in, and go up to his room. He didn’t know me, for I had on a new disguise. I was an old newspaper man.”
“Newspaper man?”