“Pickett!” exclaimed Walter. “Does he live in New York?”
“Yes.”
“And his first name—do you remember it? Was it Stanley?”
“How did you know?” demanded the astonished Guy.
“I bet I’ve got a clew to the mystery,” returned Walter eagerly. “Pickett’s the name of the man who sat behind you and mother on the train when you left Ferncliffe. Didn’t I tell you his name in one of my letters?”
“No, I don’t think you did. I don’t remember it.”
“I must ’a’ forgotten. I intended to. How about the tennis racket—where did he get that, do you suppose?”
“I haven’t any idea, unless—”
Guy suddenly became deeply thoughtful.
“Unless what?” his brother asked.