But now Bob had lost all desire to explore the dirty room and its almost as dirty contents. Suddenly another idea had come into his mind.
This man—the stranger with the hook—had claimed to be a friend to the Italian. Otherwise he would not have been allowed to enter his room in the absence of Pietro—as was evident he had done. Though for that matter Mike Brennan did not operate his Railroad House with any real regard for his guests. Those with valuable possessions did not put up at his hotel.
But this man’s air was anything but friendly. Somehow Bob got the impression that the visit was distinctly unfriendly. The man with the hook seemed angry. It was evident in his words and manner.
“No, I won’t disturb things,” said Bob, as he prepared to leave. “I’ll send Pietro for it himself. He’ll know just where it is. I’ll go back and send him.”
“And tell him to hustle back here!” growled the other. “I’ve waited long enough—I’m getting tired. Tell him Jake Dauber is waiting for him.”
“Jake Dauber!” repeated Bob.
“That’s the name—yes—want me to write it out for you?” there was anger and impatience in the voice.
“Oh, I think I can remember,” said Bob, vainly trying to piece together broken bits of the puzzle that was in his mind. “I’ll tell him.”
He did not linger longer. There was no use. He could not have done what he came for. But perhaps now there would be no need. The man with the hook presented a new complication in the Storm Mountain mystery.
“I’ll tell him—good-night—Mr. Dauber,” murmured Bob as he stepped out into the dim hall.