“Siki.”
“Robbed!” exclaimed John Paul Jones.
“He got the packet after all,” cried Ethan, with a great leap at his heart.
“Explain your meaning,” said Dr. Franklin, still bewildered. “I do not understand.”
In as few words as possible the entire story of the attempt made to steal the papers was told him. He listened intently, and shook his head gloomily at the end.
“He was a cunning rascal, indeed, that Lascar,” said he. “He took the packet and substituted another resembling it in order to delay the alarm long enough to permit him to get safe away.”
“But,” cried Paul Jones, “how could he know anything about the appearance of the packet?”
“You forget our young friend’s statement that the Lascar saw it lying upon the table between him and Mr. Hancock. For a fellow as keen as he it only required a glance and he carried away a picture of it in his mind.”
“The attack at the inn is more than I can understand,” said Ethan. “If they already had the dispatch why should they set upon us after demanding it? The matter has a queer look.”
“Most queer,” agreed the sage, wrinkling his brows. “And, to me, there seems to be only one explanation: The Lascar stole the dispatch and kept the fact hidden from his employer and comrades. He had come to understand that it was a very valuable thing and made up his mind that the profit to come from it was to be all his own.”