“Was he? Oh, yes, trying to sell his stove—but not succeeding?”
“He said he was trying to get past the valet and the secretary; he thought if he could only get at the old man and demonstrate his stove he could make the sale. He could cook all right, that feller.”
The colonel made no comment, and presently betook himself to his aunt. She was waiting for him in the parlor, playing solitaire. Through the open door the white bed that ought to have been Archie’s was gleaming faintly. The colonel’s brows met.
“Well, Bertie? Did you find anything?” Mrs. Winter inquired smoothly.
“I’m afraid not; but here is the report.” He gave it to her, even down to the cigar wrapper.
“It doesn’t seem likely that Mr. Keatcham has anything to do with it,” said she. “He, no doubt, has stolen many a little railway, but a little boy is too small game.”
“Oh, I don’t suspect Keatcham; but I wish I had caught the elevator to-night. He looked at me in a mighty queer way.”
“Did you recognize his secretary as any one whom you ever saw before?” asked Mrs. Winter.
“I can’t say,” was the answer, given with a little hesitation. “I’m not sure.”
“I don’t think I quite understand you, Bertie; better make a clean breast of all you know. I’m getting a little worried myself.”