Patsy ended his levity and drew up in his chair.
“You know whose trail I have been on—that of Gus Dewitt,” he said earnestly. “I got the chief’s telephone spiel from the post office, which put me wise to what that special-delivery letter contained, and that was the last I knew of his suspicions and designs. But I had my eye on Dewitt, all right, and I saw him receive the letter and read it.”
“And then?” questioned Chick.
“He then made a move that nearly shook me off his track,” Patsy continued. “He bolted straight for the stable back of the Reddy House. He had a horse out there tied under a shed, and he mounted him without a word to any one and rode out of town as if a dozen devil’s imps were after him.”
“You knew why he went, of course.”
“Sure thing, Chick, since I knew what was in the letter. I knew he had gone to notify the gang that the job was to be done to-night.”
“Certainly,” Chick nodded. “There was nothing else to it.”
“There was enough more to it to keep me on the go until nearly dark,” Patsy protested. “It was up to me to trail him, wasn’t it?”
“Sure,” Chick smiled. “I admit that.”
“Well, it didn’t prove to be soft walking,” Patsy resumed. “I got next to the hostler, two stable hands, and a chauffeur, who hang around there, but they didn’t know him from a side of leather, except that his name was Gus Dewitt and that he occasionally rode into town for a day or an evening.”