“And doesn’t he know anything about the queer goings on, or who upsets the furniture?” came from Paul.
“Not in the least. It’s all news to him, though he says Mr. Floyd did write a letter telling about some strange happenings. Mr. Haight didn’t pay much attention—said he couldn’t make head or tail of the letter. He intended to look into the matter when he had a chance, but now he authorizes us to do it for him.”
“And couldn’t he give even a hint as to why the sliding door was made in the floor, and who cut the passage?” asked Jack.
“No, though he said something which may prove to be a clew. He said he bought the bungalow from a man who used to be a well-known actor. This actor gave up the stage, and it was rumored that he was slightly demented before he died. Now it occurs to me that this theatrical chap may have had this sliding door made to gratify his whim for sudden and unexplained comings and goings. Perhaps to frighten his servants. Any sort of theory might explain it. That’s only a guess, but it’s as good as any.”
“It sounds reasonable,” admitted Jack. “At least the actor may have had the secret door built, but the passage, which leads to goodness knows where, looks more like the work of smugglers or a band of outlaws.”
“Perhaps it may turn out to be that before we’ve finished,” said Walter. “Anyhow, we have permission to go ahead, and the sooner we get at it, and have that wall down, the sooner we’ll know where we’re at.”
They hastened out of town, eager to begin work on the wall, and were soon on the same highway where they had seen the automobile marks.
“And this time we’ll follow them in the other direction,” said Jack. “We might as well spend a little time on this end of the game now as later, and it may be that this will fit in with the rest of the mystery.”
“Good idea,” commented Walter.
As the boys retraced their steps they took note of the fact that the mark of the big Z in the dust became plainer.