Crumpling the yellow slip into a ball, he flung it into a corner of the room and hastily donned his coat and hat. As he was about to leave the room he hesitated a moment, and started back. But after a second he started out again, and slammed the door after him. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he thought. "Bert and Dick probably won't return much before that, so there's no use writing a note telling them where I've gone." With this thought he dismissed the matter from his mind, and hurried down to the waiting auto. He stepped in, the chauffeur slammed the door, and the big machine glided noiselessly away, at a rapid gait.
About ten o'clock that evening Bert and Dick returned, and on their way to their room pounded on Tom's door. They received no reply, so concluded that he must be asleep, and passed on.
But when they stopped at his room the next morning, as was their invariable custom, and received no answer to repeated summons, they began to feel uneasy.
"Perhaps he's stolen a march on us and gone down early," suggested Dick.
"Possible," answered Bert, "but more likely he's just 'playing possum.'" As he spoke he seized the knob to rattle the door, and the door swung open!
"Why, he's not in here," exclaimed Bert, as he gazed about the room; "and what's more," he continued excitedly, "he hasn't been here all night, either. It's easy to see that the bed hasn't been slept in."
"That mighty queer," said Dick uneasily. "Where do you suppose he can have gone?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, I'm sure," said Bert. "He didn't say anything to you about going anywhere, did he?"
"Not a word," said Dick, "and I think if he had expected to be away any length of time he would have told one of us about it."
"Something might have come up unexpectedly," said Bert; "but then he'd have left a note for us. I—but what's that over in the corner!" he suddenly exclaimed, "looks as though it might be a telegram."