“I won’t. I’m too eager to fix him to dally.” It was late before Hutchinson retired that night, but still he lay awake a long time, and finally a method by which he could possibly get hold of some of Tom Locke’s handwriting flashed through his mind. “Ah!” he breathed. “Now I can sleep. He attended church last Sunday; if he does so to-morrow, I’ll see if I can’t find a way to look over the contents of that writing desk in his room. It’s possible I may find something more than a mere specimen of his chirography.” With this comforting thought, he soon drifted off into slumber as peaceful and unbroken as that of a healthy man who has no reason for a single troubled qualm. CHAPTER XXX THE LETTER IN THE DESK Shortly after Sunday morning breakfast, Hutch had a private talk in his room with one of the two bell hops of the hotel, following which he complacently strolled down to the veranda, where, lounging in a comfortable chair, he presently saw Tom Locke come forth and depart on his way to church. When the pitcher had vanished, the man rose and returned to his room. In less than fifteen minutes there came a light, nervous tap on the door, and, at Hutchinson’s invitation to enter, the bell boy, looking a trifle pale, glided in. “Well, did you get the pass-key?” questioned the manager. “Yes, sir,” answered the boy; “I slipped it off the hook when the clerk wasn’t looking, but if I’m caught I’ll be in a peck of trouble. I wouldn’t do this, only――” “Only you need the tenner I offered. Here it is.” He passed over a ten-dollar bill, which the boy took with a hand that was a trifle unsteady. “Now, go ahead down the corridor, and open the door when nobody’s looking, but don’t act so sneaky that you’ll be suspected if some guest should see you,” ordered Hutchinson. “Leave the door ajar a bit. The chambermaid for this floor is working at the front of the house, isn’t she?” “Yep; she was in Number Eleven when I come up. If I’m caught――” “Quit that, and get a move on. When I come out, I’ll close the door. You can lock it afterward. Stir yourself now.” A few minutes later, stepping almost as lightly as a cat, Hutchinson left his own room, and moved down the corridor until, at the far end, he saw the door of Number Twenty-two, which was Tom Locke’s room, standing the least bit ajar. In a moment he had passed inside, closed the door quietly, and shot the safety bolt. The room had not been made up, but it was the maid’s rule to take care of the front of the house first, and Hutch was not particularly fearful of interruption. If she should come, she would find the door bolted, and, unless she had seen him go out, doubtless she would think Locke still there. Hutchinson wasted no time. Testing the desk, he found it locked, whereupon he produced a huge bunch of keys, muttering: “If one of these won’t do it, I’ll have to break it open. I’m going into it now, anyhow.”