“Gee whiz! I’ve struck oil, all right,” he said to himself, with a thrill of satisfaction. “If the plunder is here—no, by gracious, it’s gone!”
Patsy had opened the rear door and found that the wagon was empty.
Further inspection revealed that the brass name plate on each side had been skillfully altered with a coat of gilding, and that it bore a name obviously fictitious.
“By Jove, I’ve got a sure line on the gang, at least,” thought Patsy, after these investigations. “Under the mask of death, so to put it, they have succeeded in turning this knavish trick. But where is the plunder? That’s the question. I’d better sneak out and telephone to the chief, I guess, and then return and watch this place. I can direct him to it and——”
Patsy’s train of thought ended abruptly.
So suddenly as to preclude any extensive move, the heavy tread of men’s feet sounded on the wooden run in front of the stable, and a key was thrust into the padlock of the door.
Patsy knew that a successful retreat through the trapdoor was utterly impossible. He sought the nearest place of concealment—a corner back of a grain chest that stood under the overhang of a rear haymow. He no sooner had dropped out of sight, than the broad, sliding door was opened wide enough to admit three men.
Looking cautiously over the grain chest, Patsy immediately recognized two of them.
“Jim Margate and a well-known running mate of his, Bob Pitman, a pair of desperate blacklegs.”
The third man was Mortimer Deland.