Briefly he told about the theft of the million dollars, and the disappearance of Witherby.
“Whales’ teeth and lobsters’ tails!” cried the fisherman. “A million dollars! No wonder he bought five-centers! Whew!”
“Do you know where he went?” asked Larry, eagerly.
“No, but maybe you can find out at the depot, in the mornin’, where his ticket was to. The place ain’t open now. And so you think he’s the thief?”
“I’m almost sure of it. He probably came here as the most out-of-the-way place he could find, to be under cover for a day or so. His talk, in his sleep probably, was because he has been continually fearing arrest for the last month. His conscience troubles him. I’ll get right after him in the morning.”
Larry fell into an uneasy sleep, and as soon as it was daylight he paid a visit to the cabin that the mysterious man had occupied. The reporter hoped to find some sort of a clew, nor was he disappointed.
Among some odds and ends of trash, in a box, were the pieces of a torn envelope. Barry fitted them together, and got the name “Harrison Witherby.” The envelope had been addressed to him in Hackenford.
“By Jove!” cried the young reporter in delight. “It was Witherby who was here! The trail is still good! Now if I can only find out where he’s gone!”
He hurried to the railroad station and made inquiries of the ticket agent. That official remembered the mysterious man very well, for he did not sell many tickets to strangers.
“And where did he go?” asked Larry, with beating heart.