“Where is he?”
“In the office.” The man jerked a thumb to the right. “No. Let’s see.” He consulted his watch.
“Nope. Gone home. You’ll have to come to-morrow.”
Johnny had no notion of waiting until to-morrow. The tunnel would, he reasoned, be used less at night. That would give him greater freedom in making his search.
“More than forty miles,” he grumbled. “Forty miles of tunnel. Like looking for a pearl in a gravel pit.”
For all that, he hurried to the office, caught a belated office girl, secured Mr. Rusby’s telephone number from her and then hurried to a drug store.
But there he came to a halt. Mr. Rusby, he was informed, was out and was not expected back before eleven o’clock. And no one at his home could tell where he was to be found.
“So there you are.” Johnny banged down the receiver. “May as well go back to the shack and listen to a few tunes on the radio.”
He did just that. But he heard more than tunes on the radio that night. What he heard started a fresh mystery. It made him sit up and think sober thoughts, too. You may be very sure of that.
* * * * * * * *