“Well,” Al was obstinate, “I think what I think!”
“Who owns the brown ‘plane?” asked Griff. “Did you look that up?”
“Yes, we did! No name we know. No one mixed up in the case. It was probably hired by wire, or telephone, from somebody we don’t know.”
“It isn’t important, anyhow,” Curt declared. “Not right now. What do you think of my idea, Griff?”
“I’m for anything that will tide me over till Lang gets back.”
“Then—let’s do it!” Al jumped away from the group and was already at the door. Bob hesitated a moment, then, seeing how eager Curt was to echo Al’s enthusiasm, he agreed.
After the two started for The Windsock, Bob sat with Griff, giving him the facts they knew, the theories they had formed for awhile.
“It’s tangled up, and no mistake,” Griff, recovered somewhat, but no longer fidgety, feeling that aid was being given him in his trouble, rose. “Look here, Bob—I was so excited, I didn’t eat any dinner. What say you stay here in case a call comes in, while I run out and get some coffee and sinkers?”
“Lock the desk first! I don’t want to be caught here with it open.”
“Right! I shan’t need the slip that has the combination on it, any more.” He put a paper in a small drawer, closed down the roll top, adjusted his cap at a more confident, rakish angle, and sauntered out, while Bob made himself comfortable at the desk in the swivel chair.