Bob, approaching, was surprised to see the very motorcycle—he was sure of that!—he had followed, leaned against a post in the parking yard, and he felt certain that his long ride had not been wasted.
Where was Griff? Bob wondered. He hoped there would be some way for him to discover the whereabouts of the youth.
Not wishing to walk into the place for fear he might disclose his presence to Griff, Bob skirted the building, unobserved.
From an open window at the side came voices in angry altercation.
Bob did not need to get within sight of the occupants: he recognized Griff’s loud, sharp, furious tones. What was he saying?
“——all I could scrape together—I did put it in that package, I keep telling you——”
“Bologna! Rats! It was wads of paper!”
“It was money! I want my receipt! If—if you don’t!——”
“If you don’t, you better say. If you don’t come through—by this time tomorrow night—I’ll ask your old man for it!”
There was silence.