“Do you think there’s enough wind to sail that kite to-day, Mr. Hartley?” called the boy anxiously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a while, Larry. Take a look at this, Len.”
He handed Len the answer to the telegram, explaining that he had wired the conductor on the train.
“I’d have bet on my hunch!” snapped Len. “That proves it. But where is she, Hartley? Nobody saw her leave. All we’ve got to go on is the note she left.”
“Do you know her writin’, Len?”
“Never saw it in my life.”
“Maybe she didn’t write it. Maybe she didn’t go away with Baggs. But there’s one cinch bet: she didn’t board that train last night in Lobo Wells. Jack Pollock, the gambler, is missin’, and Harry Cole says he left on that eleven-thirty train for Frisco. But this mornin’ the stable-keeper found a billfold, which looks as though it belonged to Pollock, and in it is two one-way tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco. Pollock bought the two tickets yesterday mornin’.”
“For gosh sakes!” blurted Len. “I’ll say you’ve found out a lot.”
“Don’t do us much good. What we want to know is this: did Pollock intend takin’ the girl with him last night; and what became of them? Do yuh know if she was acquainted with Pollock?”
“I never heard her say.”