"You don'd know aboudt dot feller und Matt," said Carl, "und I vill dell you. Den you vill know vat I know und ve can guess oudt der resdt togedder."
They went out on the porch and took a couple of chairs; then Carl told how Slocum had called on Matt, in Denver, claimed he was Colonel Plympton and, by trickery, got him to sign a paper that had lost him the opportunity of driving a car for the Stark-Frisbie Company.
Chub scowled.
"I sized him up for bein' pretty low-down," said he, "but I hadn't any notion he'd pull off a trick like that. What did he do it for?"
Carl went on with an account of the doings of Sercomb and his gang. Chub's wrath had been mounting by swift degrees.
"That's a fine lay-out!" he growled savagely. "The gang has done something to Matt, that's a cinch. But what? Matt goes off by himself, bag and baggage, at midnight, looking like he was locoed. Queerest thing I ever heard of!"
Before Carl could make any comment, Mr. Trueman came up the porch steps and started toward him.
"Matt was to meet me at the garage this morning at eight o'clock," said he, "and we were to talk over some important matters. Why didn't he come, Carl?"
"Dot's vat ve don'd know, Misder Drooman," answered Carl gloomily. "Modor Matt don'd been aroundt der hodel since mitnighdt."
Trueman stood as though stunned.