They had conversed rapidly and in low voices in one corner of the room, while nearly all the guests were gathered about the monkey and the Italian.
Seeing that they were likely to be thus amused for some time, Bob slipped out. Ned was on the alert to forestall possible embarrassing questions.
“I’m going up to the Italian’s room a minute,” said Bob to the Railroad House proprietor, a little later.
“Help yourself,” indifferently replied Mike Brennan. “He’s out, though.”
“Yes, I know. He’s entertaining over at the Boys’ Club.”
“Oh, sure! Now I remember ye!” cried Mike. “You’re th’ lad that come and hired him. I s’pose he forgot his music!” and he chuckled. “So ye had t’ come for it, did ye? Sure these dagos aren’t any good, though Pietro is as decent as any. Go on up wid ye!”
Bob made his way along the dimly-lighted hall until he came to the door of the room where the Italian slept. Bob had been in the Railroad House before, once when it was raided by the police. He knew that the locks on the doors were old-fashioned and that a buttonhook would open most of them. An ordinary slender key, with one ward on it, would more than do the trick, and Bob had several keys of the skeleton variety.
He was not surprised to find the door unlocked, when he tried it before using any of the keys he had brought. But if he wasn’t surprised at the ease with which he entered, he was surprised at the sight he saw when he pushed back the portal.
For the room was lighted by a dim gas jet, partly turned down. And in the sickly gleam Bob saw a man in the room—a man stooping over a chest in one corner.
At first Bob believed that Pietro had gotten there ahead of him. But the manifest impossibility of this soon made itself known to him.