It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: “I’ll do my level best for you.” But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: “I shall not return until I have found the criminal.”
What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days?
Something, it must have been, or else—perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer fellow, and he had been sadly cut up by Vernet’s falling off.
The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.
“I may as well leave Dick to his own devices,” he muttered, “but I’ll send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I know where to put my hand on him.”
As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.
“Come in,” he called, somewhat impatiently.
It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief.
“The gentleman is waiting?” queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon the bit of pasteboard.
“Yes, sir.”