“Yes, and where will that be?” Muggs asked.
“Wherever it is, we’ll have something to start on. I just want a start—that’s all! That crook’s going too far with his mysterious black stars and his telephone stunts and mind-reading performances! He’ll make a slip! Never a crook lived that didn’t make a slip some time!”
“I’d like to know how those stars got on that loaf and how I got tapped on the head!” Muggs announced. “That Black Star must be able to make himself invisible!”
Riley snorted.
“He’s a human man, and that’s all there is to it—a clever, human man!” the detective declared. “And we’re clever, human men! We’ll get him! And he’ll be visible enough when we do! There never was a mystery that didn’t have a common, everyday solution, if a man’s wise enough to know how to look at things. Twenty-four hours, eh? Some time to-night? We’ll be crazy before he pulls off his trick—crazy from waiting! You’re sure that roadster is loaded with gas, Verbeck?”
“I’m sure, Riley. Every officer in town knows that roadster, and the chief has issued orders that we are to be allowed to smash all speed limits if we see fit.”
“Then all we can do is wait—wait for the alarm. It may come in ten minutes, and it may come at two o’clock to-morrow morning. And waitin’ is the worst thing I do!”
The day passed, every hour seeming an age. Muggs cooked the evening meal with head cocked for the sound of the telephone bell. Riley paced the floor, looking at his automatic and handcuffs every half hour. Verbeck smoked innumerable cigars and betrayed nervousness in innumerable ways.
Nine o’clock came and passed—ten—eleven. Midnight struck!
The telephone rang!