“Come on, fellows,” he said. “We can’t gain anything by standing here. Let’s go back and watch Bull Harris like so many cats until we find out what he’s done with our money.”
The Seven turned and made their way through the woods once more, talking over the situation and their own course as they went. They had room for but one idea in their heads just now. They must find out where that money was and get it back, if it was the last thing they ever did in their lives.
It was clear that the hiding place could not be very far away, and that Bull and his cronies must go to it again. The Seven had left the place at about one in the morning, and réveille came at five; that gave but four hours in which Bull, who it was presumed, had watched them digging, had returned to West Point, gotten a boat and wheelbarrow and taken the treasure away. He could not have taken it a great distance in that time.
Another question was, who had helped him? Probably some of his gang, Mark thought, until he chanced to remember that Bull had another ally just then. He had a cousin, a youth even less lovely than he staying at the hotel. And then came another vague idea—perhaps he had the treasure there. Bull could surely not have it in his tent, and perhaps he had been afraid to bury it.
That was but a faint hope, yet Mark decided in a moment to follow it up. He thought of a scheme. Grace Fuller was at the hotel, and also George, the Fuller’s family butler. George was a merry, red-faced Irishman, who had once fired off some cannon at night for the plebes and scared West Point out of its boots. Mark determined after a moment’s consultation that George was the man to investigate this clew for them.
As I said, it was only a possibility, a very bare one. Mark strolled around near the hotel late in the afternoon when he returned, keeping a sharp lookout for the man just mentioned. When he saw him he whispered to him and strolled slowly away.
“George,” said Mark, hurriedly, when the other joined him, “do you know which is Cadet Harris’ cousin, the young man who’s staying in the hotel there?”
“Yes, sir,” said the butler. “His name’s Mr. Chandler. Why?”
“I’ve got a secret,” said Mark, briefly. “It’s something important, and I want you to help me, without saying a word to any one. Get one of the women, his chamber-maid if you can, to find out if he’s got a box in his room.”
And the butler chuckled to himself.