Guy looked at Walter with a composite expression—doubt, surprise, wonder, expectancy.
“Say, Walt, I’m beginning to wake up,” he announced. “There’s something in this business that looks funnier and funnier the more I think of it. Gunseyt played tennis on the Herculanea, but he didn’t have a racket of his own. Anyway, he used one belonging to the ship. But Glennon had one, and it was given to him by the same man that gave me the shoes. Moreover it, was a ‘wireless racket’—like the shoes—to put pep in your arm.”
“No!” exclaimed Walter.
“Yes,” Guy insisted. “Come on, I’m going to find Carl Glennon and ask him some questions. We never talked the matter over because we didn’t suspect anything; at least I didn’t. Now, I’ve got something in my mind.”
“So have I,” said Walter; “and everything you say only makes me more certain of it.”
The brothers hunted fifteen minutes before they found the young man in a veranda cafe where several passengers were listening to the story he had told “forty-’leven times.” Guy interrupted with an apology and informed the narrator that he wished to speak to him. Glennon excused himself and walked away with the two Burtons.
“We’re in a puzzle over that fellow Gunseyt,” began Guy as they took seats in a farther corner of the room. “We’re satisfied that there’s something deep in him, and we want to ask you some questions.”
“Fire away,” said Glennon. “I’m as much interested as you are. In my opinion he’s a rascal and ought to be jugged.”
“I wanted to ask you about that tennis racket that Smithers gave you. Do you know what became of it?”
“I suppose a mermaid’s got it battin’ codfish balls over a fish net.”