“It doesn’t seem to be good even for monkey food,” laughed Bob.
“No, I should say not. But then we don’t know what monkeys like. I’ll go back and draw up the papers.”
Bob drove the lawyer back to his office, and as they parted Mr. Weston said:
“If you get any trace of this Rod Marbury, Bob, or get a line on where Hiram can find the missing map, let me know, will you?”
“I will,” promised the lad.
“I feel a friendly interest in Hiram,” went on the lawyer, “and I’d like to see him get what’s coming to him.”
“I’m going to help him all I can,” declared the young detective.
It was several days after this, during which time Bob had worked in vain to get a clew to the mysterious happenings at the log cabin on Storm Mountain that, one evening, on his way home in his car, having done an errand for his uncle, he passed the old house where Hank Denby had died.
In the glow of the setting sun Bob saw some one moving about in the field behind the house—the field which Judge Weston had rented to Pietro Margolis as a garden in which to raise monkey food.
“It’s the Italian organ grinder himself!” exclaimed Bob as he caught sight of the black-bearded fellow.