“That is all. Take your time, Sanford; take your time.”
Sanford bowed and went slowly from the room.
A few moments longer the Chief sat thinking, a look of annoyance upon his face. Then he slowly arose, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a small, thick diary, reseated himself.
“I must review this business,” he muttered. “There’s something about it that I don’t—quite—understand.”
He turned the leaves of the diary quickly, running the pages backward, until he reached those containing an account of the events of one or two days five weeks old upon the calendar. Here he singled out the notes concerning the Raid and its results, following which were the outlines of the accounts of that night as given him by Vernet and Stanhope.
Now, in giving his account of that night, Van Vernet had said little of his experience with Alan Warburton, and at the masquerade. And in giving his account of the Raid and its failure, he had omitted the fact that he had accepted and used “Silly Charlie” as a guide, speaking of him only as a spy and rescuer. Hence the Chief had gained anything but a correct idea of the part actually played by this bogus idiot.
On the other hand, Stanhope had described at length the events of the masquerade, as they related to himself, but had said little concerning Leslie and the nature of the service she required of him, referring to her only as Mr. Follingsbee’s client. He had related his misadventures with the Troubadour and the Chinaman, leaving upon their shoulders the entire blame of his failure and non-appearance at the Raid. And he had never once mentioned Vernet’s presence, nor the part the latter had played to gain the precedence with his Chief.
In thus omitting important facts, each had his motive; and the omissions had not, at the time, been noted by the Chief. Now, however, as he read and re-read his memoranda—recalling to mind how he had shared with Vernet his chagrin at the failure of the Raid, and laughed with Stanhope over his comical mishaps—he seemed to read something between the lines, and his face grew more and more perplexed as he closed the diary, and sat intently thinking.
“There’s a mystery here that courts investigation,” he muttered, as he arose at last and put away the diary. “I’d give something, now, for twenty minutes’ talk with Dick Stanhope.”
Early on the following morning, Sanford presented himself before his Chief, the bundle of letters in his hand, and a troubled look upon his face.