As Dick followed him with his eyes, there was a slightly puzzled look in them.
Stovebridge was so cool and self-possessed, so utterly different from the man who had shown such agitation barely half an hour before, that for an instant Merriwell was staggered.
“Either I’m wrong and he’s innocent,” he thought to himself, “or he has the most amazing self-control. There isn’t a hint in his manner that the fellow has a trouble in the world.”
Then the Yale man’s intuitive good sense reasserted itself.
“He’s bluffing,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll stake my reputation that, for all his pretended indifference, Brose Stovebridge is either the guilty man, or he knows who is. And I rather think he’s the one himself.”
“Well, boys, it’s about time for lunch,” he remarked. “Suppose I take you up to your rooms and, after you’ve brushed up a bit, we’ll go in and have a bite to eat.”
“I’ll get the bags out of the car and be with you in a minute,” Dick said as they stood up.
“Wait, I’ll ring for a man to take them up,” proposed Clingwood.
“Don’t bother,” Dick said quickly. “They’re very light, and Brad and I can easily carry them. Besides, I’d like to see just where they’ve put the car so that I’ll know where to go if I want to take her out.”
“Well, have your own way,” smiled the other. “The garage is around at the back. Follow the drive and you can’t miss it.”
Leaving Tucker and Bigelow with their host, the two chums followed the latter’s directions and had no difficulty in locating the automobile sheds.
Merriwell was glad of the opportunity, for he wanted very much to have a look at Stovebridge’s car. In fact, that was his principal reason for coming out instead of having the bags sent for.
There were a dozen machines in the sheds, of all sizes and makes, but only two runabouts. One was a small electric, and the other--standing in the compartment next to Dick’s car, the _Wizard_--was a new, high-power roadster, painted a dark red.
“That’s the one, I reckon,” he said aloud, as they surveyed it.
“I opine it is, pard, if you say so,” he grinned. “Might a thick, onery cow-puncher ask, what one?”
“Stovebridge’s car,” Merriwell explained briefly.
“Oh, ho! A red runabout,” he murmured. “So you think he’s the gent we’re after?”