“You poor boy,” she laughed. “You certainly are in hot water.”
“How is Mr. Weckler?” I inquired, when she had invited me into the house.
“Getting along very nicely. His mind is still somewhat clouded, but we all feel joyful in the knowledge that it will completely clear up in time.”
“Has he told you yet who hit him?”
“No,” she shook her head.
“We think we’ve got the guy spotted, Mrs. Clayton.”
“Yes?”
“He’s hiding in the ‘Weir jungle’ near the river. And if we once wind up this crazy pickle mess we’ll probably go in after him.”
“But hadn’t you ought to let the law do that?” says she, with a worried look.
“We have a special reason for wanting to do it ourselves,” I told her, thinking, of course, of the still hidden treasure and the help that the peculiarly informed man probably could be to us in its recovery.