Patsy grinned and sat down, taking a brier pipe from his pocket and deliberately filling it. Not until he had lit it and wafted a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling did he speak again, and then he stared at Chick and said simply: “Well?” Chick settled back in his chair and told him what had occurred. Patsy’s face then had lost its sphinxlike expression. “Gee whiz!” he commented. “Say, Chick, old top, this isn’t so bad.” “Come on with it,” Chick replied, knowing he had something to report. “What have you learned that’s worth knowing?” “Worth knowing—that’s my long suit with four honors,” said Patsy. “I never pick up thirteen measly duckers, no matter who deals the papes. Say, Chick, old chap, listen!” “Listen, eh? What do you think I’m doing? Do I look like a lay figure with wax ears? I am listening.” Patsy ended his levity and drew up in his chair. “You know whose trail I have been on—that of Gus Dewitt,” he said earnestly. “I got the chief’s telephone spiel from the post office, which put me wise to what that special-delivery letter contained, and that was the last I knew of his suspicions and designs. But I had my eye on Dewitt, all right, and I saw him receive the letter and read it.” “And then?” questioned Chick. “He then made a move that nearly shook me off his track,” Patsy continued. “He bolted straight for the stable back of the Reddy House. He had a horse out there tied under a shed, and he mounted him without a word to any one and rode out of town as if a dozen devil’s imps were after him.” “You knew why he went, of course.” “Sure thing, Chick, since I knew what was in the letter. I knew he had gone to notify the gang that the job was to be done to-night.” “Certainly,” Chick nodded. “There was nothing else to it.” “There was enough more to it to keep me on the go until nearly dark,” Patsy protested. “It was up to me to trail him, wasn’t it?” “Sure,” Chick smiled. “I admit that.” “Well, it didn’t prove to be soft walking,” Patsy resumed. “I got next to the hostler, two stable hands, and a chauffeur, who hang around there, but they didn’t know him from a side of leather, except that his name was Gus Dewitt and that he occasionally rode into town for a day or an evening.” “I see.” “Then a cabby showed up who remembered having seen him ride in one night with Jake Hanlon, at whose place we cornered Jim Reardon for the Glidden murder.” “At Benton Corners.” “Sure,” nodded Patsy. “That, of course, put a bee in my bonnet. I reasoned that, if Dewitt and Hanlon were friends, both might be in this job, as well as those two thoroughbred rascals who hang out at Hanlon’s place, Dick Bryan, and Link Magee.” “Quite likely, Patsy,” Chick agreed. “I reckoned, too, that Dewitt was heading for Benton Corners, since he had taken that direction.” “You went out there?”