“Well, I’ll try it. Maybe it will be a longer session than I anticipate. But don’t let it be known that I’m there.”
“I won’t, Bob. You can slip in any time you like. I’ll furnish you with a key. And you’ll have a good excuse in being here.”
“Yes—arranging for the annual banquet of the Boys’ Club.”
For there was such a function, and it was always held at the Mansion House, the club house not being large enough. Bob had gone to the trouble of getting himself appointed a member of the Banquet Committee, and though it was still some weeks before that affair would take place, it gave sufficient excuse, in case he was questioned, to account for his presence in the hotel.
Thus it was arranged and Bob, deserting his friends and relatives for the time being, took up his quarters in the little cubbyhole of a room, adjoining that which harbored Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Just what Bob hoped to find out or prove he hardly knew in his own mind. Certainly he did not tell Ned or Harry, for he couldn’t. It was all so vague—merely a suspicion.
“What’s got into old Bob lately?” asked Harry of Ned, a few days after the futile chase of the milk train.
“Oh, he’s working on that Storm Mountain mystery, you can depend on that.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“Nothing special. Bob never does when he’s following close on a clew. But he said he might not see us for a few days.”