Boy Scouts in the Canal Zone: or, The Plot Against Uncle Sam. Ralphson George Harvey

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      “And your father went to his room then?”

      “Yes; he said he had some work to do.”

      “His room, also, was unoccupied all the afternoon?”

      “Yes; it must have been.”

      “Who is usually about the lower part of the house during the afternoon?”

      “No one when mother is away.”

      “Do you know whether anything was taken from your father’s room?”

      “Why, I haven’t heard that feature of the case discussed. We can soon find out by asking him.”

      “Gee!” cried Jimmie. “What would they want to go an’ dope him for if there wasn’t something in his room they wanted?”

      “That is a very pertinent question,” Lieutenant Gordon remarked. “It certainly seems that the thieves came here for something besides the emerald necklace.”

      “Meaning the papers?” asked Ned, with a laugh.

      “Meaning the papers, of course,” was the reply. “I am still of the opinion that the theft of the necklace was only incidental.”

      “It begins to look that way to me,” observed Frank. “As Jimmie says, what would they attack father for unless they wanted to search his room?”

      “You know about the papers?” asked the lieutenant.

      “Yes, indeed. They constituted the subject of the interesting story Dad was telling me at table to-night.”

      “Did he tell you what they contained?” asked Ned.

      “He did not. He told me only what they dealt with.”

      “He believes there is a plot against the completion of the Panama canal?”

      “Oh, yes; he is quite certain of it.”

      “Did he mention the parties he suspected?”

      “He refused to do so. I can’t understand why he should refuse. Can you?”

      “I think I can appreciate his position,” replied Ned.

      “Great Scott!” cried Frank. “Do you think the agents of the men we are to grapple with in the Canal Zone have been in this house to-night? If so, it looks like they were looking us up, instead of our being after them.”

      “Where is this man Pedro?” asked Ned, not answering the question.

      “He was in the study when I left, a few moments ago.”

      “Then we will go down there. I want to ask him a few questions.”

      At the foot of the staircase, they heard the telephone ringing, and Frank went into the closet. When he came out again he seemed excited and unnerved.

      “I guess there’s something more than the necklace at stake to-night,” he said, “for Dad’s rooms in the newspaper building have been ransacked. I guess we won’t have to go down to Gatun to lock horns with the men who are in this plot against Uncle Sam. If the Gatun dam was in New York, they might have blown it up to-night, for all that has been done to thwart them.”

      “Well, we’ve just got to work on the case,” grinned Jimmie.

      CHAPTER IV.

      THE MAN IN THE CLOSET

      “If you take my advice,” Ned said to Frank, as they reached the study door, “you won’t say anything to your father about the trouble at the office until we have talked with him concerning the raid on the house. He might rush off to the newspaper building immediately, without answering our questions about the visit to his room.”

      “That is just what he would do,” Frank replied.

      When the boys entered the study, closely followed by Lieutenant Gordon and Jimmie, they found three men in the room. One was Mr. Shaw, lying on a couch at the front of the apartment. One was Dr. Benson, who sat in an easy chair at his side. The third was Pedro, the servant mentioned by Frank as one of his father’s favored attendants. He stood by the couch as the boys stepped into the room, his bold black eyes studying their faces impertinently as they entered.

      The man was not far from forty, tall, slender, dusky of face – plainly in intellectual capacity and breeding far above the menial position he occupied in the house. Standing in repose, his figure was erect and well balanced, like that of a man trained to military service.

      But even as he stood subserviently by the couch of his employer, his slender hands at his sides, there seemed to be something of the alertness of a wild beast in his physical attitude of suppression. Somehow, he gave Ned the impression of one about to spring forth upon an enemy.

      After the presentations were made, it was with the greatest difficulty that Lieutenant Gordon restrained himself from at once taking up the topic he had discussed with Mr. Shaw so unsatisfactorily that afternoon – the subject of the plot against the Gatun dam. What did the editor know? What did he suspect concerning the raid on his home? Did he believe that the plotters had opened their defense right there in the city of New York?

      However, he curbed his hasty impulse, knowing that the information he sought was not to be obtained in that way. Mr. Shaw was looking upon the matter entirely from the standpoint of an enterprising journalist, and would be cautious about giving out his own discoveries and impressions.

      “Are you still suffering from the effects of the chloroform?” asked the lieutenant, anxiously.

      “I’m still a little weak,” was the reply, “and still a little tippy at the stomach, but Benson tells me that I shall be well again in an hour.”

      “You were of course attacked without warning,” the lieutenant continued, half hoping that the editor would enter into a full and frank discussion of the event.

      “Entirely so,” was the reply. “I was sitting at my desk when the door was opened and some one entered. I thought it was Pedro, for I had just rung for him, and did not look around. Then I was seized from behind and a handkerchief soaked with chloroform thrust into my face.”

      “You did not see your assailant?” asked Ned.

      “Now for the cross-examination,” laughed the editor. “I have heard something of Mr. Nestor’s work in the secret service,” he added, “and shall be glad to answer any of his questions. Go ahead, my boy. No, to answer your first question, I did not see my assailant, and do not know whether there were two or only one.”

      “Did you notice the time?” asked Ned, modestly.

      “Yes, it was nine o’clock. The next I knew, Pedro was lifting me onto the couch, and a maid was lifting her voice to high heaven out in the corridor. That, I have since learned, was at ten o’clock, so, you see, the ruffians had an hour to work in.”

      “They must have mussed the room up quite a lot in that time,” said the lieutenant, hoping to bring the editor to the point in which he was interested.

      Mr. Shaw made no reply, but turned to Ned with a smile.

      “Go СКАЧАТЬ