“Well, not exactly,” answered Mrs. Shan. “But you better talk with him yourself.”
“I will,” decided Bob, and he drove over to the log cabin.
“Who’s there?” demanded a voice inside, when he had knocked at the door—a voice he recognized as that of the old sailor.
“I am—Bob Dexter,” was the reply.
There was a moment of silence, and then a movement within—the sound of a chair being pushed back over the floor.
“Oh—all right—I’ll let you in,” went on Hiram Beegle.
There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock, and a rattle, denoting a chain being slipped from its fastenings.
“He isn’t taking any more chances,” thought Bob with a smile.
The door was finally opened, and the old man peered out. That dazed look was gone from his face, but he seemed a trifle weak. As he caught sight of Bob he murmured:
“Oh, the young detective who helped me! I remember. Come in. But is there any one with you?” he asked, suspiciously.