“Silent Charley” he found ready, even eager to talk. Yes; “Rickey” Hoff had been in his place right along. Drunk? No; not even drinking much lately. Two other gentlemen had met him there quite often. They sat in the back room and talked. No, neither of them was Spanish. One was big and clean-shaven and wore a silk hat. They called him “Colonel.” A swell dresser. The other man drank gin, and a lot of it. His name was Fred. He was very tanned. One day there had been a hot discussion over a sheet of paper that lay on the table in front of the three men in the back room. “Rickey” had called a messenger boy and sent him out for a geography. “I told you there wasn’t any such thing there,” the saloon-keeper heard him say triumphantly, when the geography arrived. Then Fred replied: “To h-ll with you and your schoolbook! I tell you I’ve waded across it.” The colonel smoothed things over and it ended in a magnum of champagne being ordered.
“For which the colonel paid?” asked Average Jones.
“Why, yes, he did,” assented the saloon man. “He said, ‘Well, it’s a go, then. Here’s luck to us!’ He was a good spender, the colonel.”
“And you haven’t seen any of them since, I suppose?”
“Nary a one.”
On his return to the Hoff mansion the investigator found the head thereof in a state of great excitement.
“Say, I’ve found out something,” he cried. “Roddy’s gone to Yurrup.”
“Where did you find that out?” asked Average Jones with a smile.
“I been going through his papers like you told me. He’s been outfitting for a trip. Bought lots of truck the last few days and I found the duplicate sale-checks that come in the packages. There’s stubs for a steamer rug and for a dope for seasickness and for a compass,” he concluded triumphantly.
“Compass, eh?” observed Average Jones thoughtfully. “Ship’s compass is good enough for most of us going to Europe. Anything else?”