“That’s what everybody says. No. 5 got in at half-past eleven. Gosh, Uncle David, if we had told Captain Tucker last night about that car——”
“I don’t think it would have made any difference,” the doctor said slowly. The blind eyes had puckered again with a queer expression of baffled uncertainty. Opposite the garage he spoke to Lady, and the dog, obedient, led him in toward the pumps.
“Jerry about?”
The mechanic answered. “No, Doctor; had to go up-country with the wrecker to bring down a busted car. Hear about the hold-up?”
“Yes. Any talk about the getaway?”
“Nobody saw a car come up out of that road, Doctor. Tucker doesn’t know. He had a bag over his head, and the express engine was running, and, lying on the floor, all he could hear was his own motor. Looks like whoever planned it, planned it neat.”
“About twenty-two thousand dollars?”
“Twenty-eight thousand. Everybody had it twenty-two thousand at first, but it was twenty-eight thousand. Twenty thousand in paper money, and eight thousand in silver.”
“In silver?” The doctor stood very still and broke into an almost soundless whistle. Joe’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the sign—his uncle’s mind, back in its shroud of darkness, had touched something tangible and significant. Quietly, after a long minute of thought, the blind man walked into the office, groped about the desk for the telephone, and called the railroad station.
“Ike, this is Dr. Stone. Did you find Carl Metz and deliver the telegram?”