“Is this room occupied?” asked Larry, as he reached the door of the one in which, from the vacant house, he had seen the man with the false beard.
“Yes, Mr. Witherby has that,” was the unexpected answer.
“Mr. Witherby!”
Larry started, and he feared lest his voice should have betrayed his anxiety. So Witherby, after all, was the man with the false beard! His house was near the pile of tell-tale bricks. More and more, everything seemed to point to him as the thief.
“Here is a room you might like to look at,” said the boarding mistress, opening the door of a chamber some distance down the hall. “I’ll just see if it’s fit to be inspected.” She vanished within the room, while Larry started toward it. At that moment the door of Witherby’s apartment opened.
The young reporter swung around to face the bank clerk, but to his surprise he saw a young man, with a sandy moustache, come out—a young man who did not at all resemble the bank clerk, and who looked at Larry with no sign of recognition.
The man with the sandy moustache passed down the hall toward the stairs, and, at that moment the landlady, coming out of the vacant room, saw him.
“Why—why,” she stammered. “Who—who are you? I—I did not let you in!”
“He came out of Mr. Witherby’s room,” explained Larry quickly.
“Then he’s a sneak-thief!” cried the landlady sharply. “Call the police! Hold him! He’s a thief!”