"Under ordinary conditions it certainly wouldn't," his cousin went on to say; "but when you've got a pretty good idea that you're dealing with a slippery hobo, actor, past-aviator, and now a bank burglar and cracksman in general, why that puts a different face on the matter, don't you see, my boy?"
"All right; let's take a look," said Andy, easily convinced that since they were really working hand in glove with the police authorities, they had a perfect right to prowl around in anybody's room, and pick up such valuable information as could be found afloat.
But after all they found nothing that looked like incriminating evidence. The fact of the matter was that the professor did not seem to own any sort of wardrobe whatever, and had nothing belonging to him save the clothes on his back, the little case of butterflies which Frank believed he had bought for a dollar over in Cranford at the curio dealer's shop, and a few bottles holding some strong smelling acids, which possibly were used to either kill the captured butterflies so they would not beat their wings out; or else to preserve certain specimens of bugs he expected to run across in his hunts.
"Nothing doing," said Andy, with considerable of disgust and disappointment in his voice.
"Come here!" remarked his cousin, softly.
"Hello! don't tell me you've found something?" and Andy crossed the floor in more or less haste.
He found Frank bending over a table at which there were writing materials—pen, envelopes, paper and a blotter.
"What's doing? Have you found the gentleman's notebook lying carelessly around, and which we can peep into, eh, Frank?"
"Not at all," came the reply. "I was only looking at this blotter."
"Whatever is there funny about that?" demanded the other, in puzzled tones, as he glanced first at the object in question, and then up at the face of his chum.