“You seem to be right in thinking the paper widely distributed,” observed the colonel.
“And you don’t think that suspicious?”
“I should think it more suspicious if the paper were not out on her desk. If she is such a deep one as you seem to think, she would hide such an incriminating bit of evidence.”
“She didn’t know we suspected her. Of course, you haven’t shadowed her a little bit?”
“There is a limit to detective duty in the case of a gentleman,” returned the colonel haughtily. “I have not.”
Little Birdsall sighed; then in a propitiatory tone: “Well, of course, we both think there are other people in the job; I don’t know exactly what you mean by bigger game, but I can make a stagger at it. Now, say, did you get any answer when you wrote to Keatcham himself?”
“Yes,” said the colonel grimly, “I heard. You know the sort of letter I wrote; telling him of our dreadful anxiety and about the lad’s being an orphan; don’t you think it was the sort of letter a decent man would answer, no matter how busy he might be?”
“Sure. Didn’t you get an answer?”
“I did.” The colonel extricated himself from his wrappings enough to find a pale blue envelope, which he handed to Birdsall, at the same time taking the motor handle. “You see; type-written, very polite, chilly sort of letter, kind to make a man hot under the collar and swear at Keatcham’s heartlessness. Mr. Keatcham unable to answer, having been ill since he left San Francisco. Did not see anything of any boy. Probably boy ran away. Has no information of any kind to afford. And the writer is very sincerely mine. The minute I read it I was sure Mercer wrote it; and he wrote it to make me so disgusted with Keatcham I wouldn’t pursue the subject with him. Just the same way he snubbed my aunt; and, for that matter, just the way he tried to snub me on the train. But he missed his mark; I wired every hotel in Santa Barbara and every one in Los Angeles; and Keatcham isn’t there and hasn’t been there. He has a big bunch of mail at Santa Barbara waiting for him, forwarded from Los Angeles, but he hasn’t shown himself.”
Birdsall shot a glance of cordial admiration at the colonel. “You’re all there, General,” he cried with unquenchable familiarity. “I’ve been trying to call up the Keatcham outfit, and I couldn’t get a line, either. They haven’t used the tickets they bought—their reservations went empty to Los Angeles. Now, what do you make out of that?”