“No, not one. His inquiries were made in exactly the places you would expect them to be made if he is exactly who he says he is—a business man, a stranger, who has a proposition that he is half thinking of putting up to Locke if the replies to his inquiries are satisfactory. He has been to banks, to the chamber of commerce, to a big business man or two. He has good business credentials—from Buenos Aires. The questions he asked, however, had very little to do with Locke’s business standing. They were mostly personal.”
“In what way?”
“As to his character and habits. What sort of a man is he? Does he drink? Does he gamble? Does he run around nights? If so, where?”
“H’m!” grunted Carmichael. “Wants to know where to find him after dark, eh?”
“It looks that way. And right in that connection comes a thing that could be mighty significant. Less than half an hour ago he got him a gun—a .45—and a box of cartridges.”
“Where?”
Burnham named the store. “Tucked it down into his pants—he’s handled a .45 before, I’d say, from the way he did it—and then came here to the hotel. He has just gone up to his room.”
Captain Carmichael considered briefly.
“If he’s come here on some errand with Locke for that Tarbox outfit—and those questions look like he wants to know when and where to find him at bed hours,” he said, “he isn’t likely to lose any time. And with a gun hung on him——”
The captain crossed to where his own holstered pistol had been laid on the bed while he made his toilet, strapped it on, and reached for his coat.