“But it seems to hold its secret pretty well,” mused the lad as he walked about it, gazing intently on the wooden walls. “There must be some secret opening in them,” thought the boy. “Though if there was why doesn’t Hiram know it? Or, if he knows it, why does he not admit it? Of course he might have his own reasons for keeping quiet. I wish I could find out!”
Bob looked, he tapped, he hammered he pounded. But all to no purpose. The walls would not give up their secret. He even stuck his head up the chimney flue as far as he could, thereby getting smudges of black on his face, but this effort was no more fruitful than the others.
“The key could come down the chimney, of course,” mused Bob, “but it couldn’t jump itself out of the ashes into the middle of the room. That’s the puzzle.”
He had spent more time than he reckoned on in seeking the secret and he was surprised, on looking at his watch, to find how late it was.
“I’d better be going after those two,” thought the lad. “They’ll have fish enough by this time, if they get any at all.”
As Bob was locking the strong room, and preparing to put the key back in its hiding place, he heard something that gave him a start. This was a knock on the front door of the log cabin.
“Gosh! Are they back so soon?” thought the lad.
He did not realize, for the moment, that Hiram would not have knocked at his own door. It must be some one else.
Quickly the lad closed the niche and then, going to the door opened it.
Standing on the threshold was—Pietro Margolis—the Italian music grinder. He had with him neither his monkey nor organ, but on his face there was a look of surprise, and he started back at the sight of Bob Dexter.