“I’ve heard good reports of you,” complimented Hiram.
“Thanks. But of course there’s lots I’ve got to learn. But I know enough about cases like this to feel sure that, somewhere or other, the thief has made a slip. He’s left some sort of a clew, and if I can get on the trail of it we may catch this Rod Marbury.”
“Yes, Rod did it all right,” declared Hiram. “He and Jolly Bill were the only ones, except me, that knew of the treasure. Old Hank wrote to each of them, just before he died, telling how he had willed the treasure to me, and had left me the brass box in which the map was always kept.
“Now Jolly Bill appears, fair and square and above board, and he’s man enough to say he’s sorry for what he did. Well, he may be, for he’s out of pocket by it.
“But this scoundrel Rod sneaks into town, waylays me to get the box away and when he can’t do that, because he’s scared off, he comes back to my cabin, drugs me in some way, either by dropping something into my buttermilk, or by throwing a gas bomb into my room, and then he takes the box, after tapping me on the head.”
“Do you think that’s how it happened?” asked Bob.
“Of course it was! I’ve told you, but I’ll tell you again. I went in my strong room, and I was looking at the brass box and the map, when all of a sudden I felt sort of weak like. The next I knew was when I came to, and found myself lying on the floor, locked in, the big key close to my hand, and my box and map gone.”
“And you never saw Rod nor any one else?”
“Nary a soul. It was like a dream.”
“But you must have been expecting some sort of attack as this,” reasoned Bob, “else why did you build the strong room, with no entrance to it except by the door, and the chimney barred? Why did you do that?”