Joe sprang out of bed, and in one bound reached the corridor. By means of the one dim electric lamp he saw, going down the stairs, carrying a grip with him, the mysterious man who had tried to quarrel with him. He was evidently taking "French leave," going out in the middle of the night to "jump" his hotel bill.
"What's up?" asked Rad, as he, too, left his bed. "What is it, Joe?"
The young pitcher came back into the room, and switched on a light. A quick glance about showed that neither his baggage, nor Rad's, had been taken.
"It must have been his own grip he had," said Joe.
"His? Who do you mean—what's up?" demanded Rad.
"It was Wessel. He's sneaking out," remarked Joe in a low voice. "Shall we give the alarm?"
"No, I guess not. We don't want to be mixed up in a row. And maybe he's going to take a midnight train. You can't tell."
"I think he was in this room," went on Joe.
"He was? Anything missing?"
"Doesn't seem to be."