“I shouldn’t have believed it! I hardly thought you would carry it so far.”
“And while he may be a salesman of imitation cut-glass, he has expensive tastes.”
“Lord help us, he hasn’t been buying you a watch?”
“No; he was lavishing himself on a watch for the foreman of his ranch in Montana.”
“Humph! you’re chaffing.”
“Not in the least. He paid—I couldn’t help being a witness to the transaction—he actually paid five hundred francs for a watch to give to the foreman of his ranch—his ranch, mind you, in Montana, U.S.A. He spoke of it incidentally, as though he were always buying watches for cowboys. Now where does that leave us?”
“I’m afraid it rather does for my theory. I’ll look him up when I get home. Montana isn’t a good hiding-place any more. But it was odd the way he acted about old Stroebel’s death. You don’t suppose he knew him, do you?”
“It’s possible. Poor Count von Stroebel! Many hearts are lighter, now that he’s done for.”
“Yes; and there will be something doing in Austria, now that he’s out of the way.”
Four days passed, in which they devoted themselves to their young brother. The papers were filled with accounts of Count von Stroebel’s death and speculations as to its effect on the future of Austria and the peace of Europe. The Claibornes saw nothing of Armitage. Dick asked for him in the hotel, and found that he had gone, but would return in a few days.