“Second one, what?” propounded Pep.
“To come here, asking about them packages. Yes, there’s been two we sent—‘John Smith’ to the ‘New Idea.’ Don’t believe that’s his right name, though. He sent two of the packages, as I say. About a week ago he stopped sending ’em. Haven’t seen him since.”
“About a week ago?” ruminated Pep. “I can guess that Slavin sent him a warning. Where did the man come from?” he asked.
“Dunno, and no one else. A man who was here a few days since asked me that same question. I gave him a description of the man. He went out searching for him, but he came back and took the train for Boston next morning, looking sort of discouraged, so I reckon he didn’t find out much.”
“The detective Frank Durham hired, I’ll bet,” whispered Vic to Pep.
“Likely enough,” replied the latter. Then he said to the station agent: “Describe the man to us, too; will you, mister?”
The agent did so, “John Smith” was tall, dark and wore a light suit. He had come to the depot on two occasions on horseback, and, it looked, from some distance.
“You’d know that hoss if you saw him,” declared the man. “He was a succus hoss.”
“Oh, a circus horse?” guessed Pep.
“That’s what I said—all mottled like a zebra. And spotted—brown and white. Say, is there something wrong about that fellow that so many people are looking after him?”