“That’s very kind of you, Bob,” said the former judge. “You have my word that everything is all right, as far as Mr. Beegle’s legal possession of that box is concerned.”
“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the old man.
“Perfectly,” answered the young detective. And he made up his mind that if there was a further mystery in the matter he would try to solve it later.
“Then let’s pull up our mud hook,” went on Mr. Beegle. “It’s getting late and I’d like soon to be back safe in my log cabin. Much obliged to you, Judge.”
“Don’t mention it. The case is now closed as far as I am concerned.”
As Bob drove his machine out through Cliffside, in the direction of Storm Mountain, he saw some of his friends coming home from the ball game.
“Who won?” he called to Fred Merton.
“We did, eight to six!”
“Wow! Good enough!”
The lad and his old companion were soon on a quiet country road. Mr. Beegle had not talked a great deal, occasionally putting his hand up to his injured head.