“Seals were all intact. ‘The Tyringham estate,’” he read musingly. “What do you make of that?” he asked Deering, who remained crumpled on the floor beside the suitcase.
“That’s an estate father was executor of—it’s a long story. Old man Tyringham had been a customer of his, and left a will that made it impossible to close the estate till his son had reached a certain age. The final settlement was to be made this summer. But my God, Hood, do you suppose father—my father could be——”
“A defaulter?” Hood supplied blandly.
“It’s impossible!” roared Deering. “Father’s the very soul of honor.”
“I dare say he is,” remarked Hood carelessly. “So were you till greed led you to pilfer your governor’s strong box. Let us be tolerant and withhold judgment. It’s enough that your own skirts are clear. Put that stuff out of sight; we must flit.”
Hood set off for the Barton Arms at a brisk pace, talking incessantly.
“This whole business is bully beyond my highest expectations. By George, it’s almost too good to be true! Critics of the drama complain that the average amateur’s play ends with every act; but so far in our adventures every incident leads on to something else. Perfectly immense that somebody had beaten you to the bonds!”
Deering’s emotions were beyond utterance. It was a warm morning, and he did not relish carrying the suitcase, whose recovery had plunged him into a despair darker than that caused by its loss.
At a turn in the road Hood paused, struck his stick heavily upon the ground, and drew out the slipper. He whirled it in the air three times and twice it pointed east. He thrust it back into his pocket with a sigh of satisfaction and brushed the dust from his hands.
“Once more we shall follow the pointing slipper. Yesterday it led us to the moon girl, the bungalow, and the suitcase; now it points toward the mysterious east, and no telling what new delights!”