“I’m not saying anything,” answered Tom.
“That’s the way the rest ought to do,” said Dave. “Keep cool, Tom. You know jumping at conclusions sometimes only makes a chap tumble to his own folly.”
“Humph! I suppose this is another mystery,” snickered Larry—“never to be solved.”
“Hank Styles is a pretty rough-looking customer,” said Bob. “I think I know what’s been going on in your mind, Tom. A chap is justified in trying to find out all he can in a case like this. Fellows”—he raised his hand impressively—“no objections, now. What I am going to do may be only the result of a foolish whim, but perhaps it may do some good, after all.”
“What’s the idea?” demanded Tom, breathlessly.
“I’ll skip off. All of you go in the house. With such a big bunch around he’ll probably never miss me. Even if he does it can’t do any harm.”
“But look here, Bob,” protested Sam Randall.
“Not a word,” warned Bob. “Don’t pay the slightest attention to me—remember!”
“Go as far as you like, Bob,” whispered Tom.
Hank Styles reappeared at the door a short time later. His manner had undergone a decided change.