Larry thought the same thing, the more so as he had seen the performance with the false beard.
“I’ll get him!” cried the young reporter.
He darted after the man with the sandy moustache, but the latter, with a quickness that was almost incredible, ran down the stairs. A moment afterward the front door slammed shut behind him, and when Larry reached the stoop there was no one in sight.
“Well, by Jove!” exclaimed the astonished reporter. “That was sure a quick get-away! I wonder where he went?”
“Did you get him? Where is he?” panted the landlady. “Call the police.”
“There’s not much use of that now,” replied the practical Larry. “The fellow has disappeared. He must have run around in some yard, and he’s far enough off by this time. The best thing to do would be to see if he has taken anything.”
“And to think that he was in Mr. Witherby’s room!” lamented the boarding mistress. “Oh, how can I explain it to him? I was sure Mr. Witherby had come home, too, but he must have gone out again. Oh, perhaps this thief has killed him in his room!”
“Not much danger of that,” replied Larry. “We’ll take a look.”
“Oh, I’m so frightened!” cried the woman. “There’s no one home now, for my servant has gone to the store. Oh, call the police! I have a telephone.”
“Wait until we see if we need them,” suggested Larry. “There’s no use causing unnecessary excitement. Perhaps you can tell, by looking at Mr. Witherby’s room, whether anything is missing.”