Suddenly he caught his breath. It had occurred to him that George’s glance had fallen idly upon the sheets of newspaper with which they were packing the articles into the trunk, and remembrance came to him. They were using the outer sheets only from the top of the pile on the pantry shelf; the inner sheets of those papers were wrapped about Horton’s pistol in the bag! Had George noted anything unusual? His manner certainly did not show it, and he was packing with a preoccupation which boded ill for the safe arrival of the fragile lamp at Greenlea.
To test him, Storm repeated:
“It looks as if the fellow was going to get away with it in this case, at any rate.”
“They’ve only just started,” George replied significantly, adding as he eyed the half-filled trunk: “We should have put those books on the bottom, but never mind now. Does this desk set go in, too?”
“Yes.” Storm breathed more easily, but his vaunted foresight had received a shock. Why hadn’t he destroyed those confounded outer sheets of the newspaper?
The thought brought a swift reminder to him. Why not get rid now of the cap which Horton had worn on that fateful walk? There was room in the trunk . . . .
He dashed to the closet.
“Wait a minute, George. When you packed up my things to move in town you brought along a lot of old clothes that I shan’t have any use for in a dog’s age. Might as well ship some of them back to Greenlea now and have done with it.”
“Sure!” responded George equably. “Bring them along.”
Storm returned, his arms filled with a miscellaneous collection of coats and headgear. Among the latter was a certain cap of thin dark blue cloth, and as he saw it disappear into the trunk he heaved a sigh of relief. That, too, was gone! He turned to his companion.