“Grant!” whispered Piper, straightening out his index finger and pressing it against his lips.
Phil shook his head. “No, Sleuth, I can’t think it of that fuf-fellow. As unpopular as Grant is, I don’t believe he’d do such a contemptible thing.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Sleuth; “but it’s the method of great detectives to take every suspicious person into consideration. I’ll stake my personal reputation on it that one of the three parties mentioned is the culpable wretch. If you had seen what my eyes beheld over at Bunk Lander’s old camp on a certain dark and dismal night, if you had witnessed the venomous rage with which Rod Grant fastened his clutches on the throat of said Lander, you might now be disposed to think him capable even of such an act as this.”
“But Davis denied that story; he said there wasn’t a word of truth in it.”
“And lied in his false throat,” growled Sleuth hoarsely. “I know what I saw, and I likewise know that Mr. Grant and Mr. Lander have not been on particularly friendly terms since that narrowly averted tragedy. On the other hand, the before-mentioned Davis and the before-said Grant have been very chummy indeed. Why, Davis has even called on Grant at the domicile of Miss Priscilla Kent—called privately, secretly, surreptitiously, under cover of darkness.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh,” answered Sleuth, throwing out his chest, “I’ve been keeping a vigilant and sleepless eye upon those parties.”
“But I can’t believe Grant would dud-do it,” persisted Springer. “Davis might, and he’s particularly sus-sore on Berlin since that little mix-up at the academy Thursday.”
“Is it not possible—indeed, probable—that both these persons were concerned?”
“I won’t believe it of Rod Grant until I see pup-proof,” said Phil.