Mr. Tomlinson did not show himself down-stairs. His meal was carried to his room.
Carl babbled continually while he and Matt were eating, but Matt had very little to say in reply. His mind was busy with the letter.
When they had finished supper, Matt and Carl went up to their own room. Inasmuch as the Red Flier was to make an early start for Flagstaff, the following morning, Matt had invited the Dutch boy to spend the night with him.
As soon as they were in the room, and Matt had closed and locked the door, he drew up a chair close to Carl's and began telling him, in a low voice, about what he had found under the rubber mat in the tonneau.
"Py shinks!" exploded Carl, "dere iss unterhandt vork going on, Matt, I bed you!"
"Not so loud, Carl," cautioned Matt. "I don't know where Tomlinson's room is, but it may be next to this one."
"You t'ink he knows somet'ing aboudt dot?" whispered Carl, in amazement.
"He may, and he may not. I don't know what to think. Anyhow, the letter doesn't belong to him, and I'm going to read it and see what it has to say. If it contains any information worth while, I've got to tell the deputy sheriff."
"Sure!" returned Carl. "It's funny dot you don'd read it pefore."
"I've been thinking about it, and trying to figure out what I had better do. If James Trymore is a Denver crook, I can't understand how a letter to him got into Mr. Tomlinson's car."