“Well, I’ll bet he’s our man.” Smiths jumped up and seized his cap. “I’ll run over and tell Poor.”
“What, at this time of night?”
“Pshaw! it’s only eleven-thirty. He’ll be glad to know about it.”
“He’ll probably pitch you down-stairs, and serve you right.”
“Not much he won’t. Good night.”
“Good night,” answered Allan. “I’ve got some surgeon’s plaster, if you need it.”
Hal Smiths slammed the door and took the front porch in one leap. Then the gate crashed. Allan listened intently.
“That’s funny!” he muttered. “He must have missed the lamp-post!”
He took up a book, found a pencil, and opened the table-drawer in search of a pad. As he did so, his eyes fell on a folded sheet of lined paper. He read the penciled words on it—“Peter Burley”—and, refolding it after a moment of indecision, tucked it back in a corner of the drawer, frowning deeply the while.