In fact, it left me in doubt as to whether Whitney
himself might not have been bluffing, in the certainty of finding
the treasure--perhaps had already the secret he denied having and
was preparing to cover it up by stumbling on it, apparently, in
some other way. I recognized in Stuart Whitney as smooth an
individual as ever we had encountered. His was all the sincerity
of a crook. Yet he contrived to leave the whole matter in doubt.
Perhaps in this case he actually knew what he was talking about.
The telephone rang and Lockwood answered it. Though he did not
mention her name, I knew from his very tone and manner that it was
Senorita de Mendoza who was calling up. Evidently his continued
absence had worried her.
"There's absolutely nothing to worry about," we heard him say.
"Nothing has changed. I shall be up to see you as soon as I can
get away from the office."
There was an air of restraint about Lockwood's remarks, not as
though he were keeping anything from the Senorita, but as though
he were reluctant for us to overhear anything about his affairs.
Lockwood had been smoking, too, and he added the stubs of his
cigarettes to the pile in the ash-tray on Whitney's desk. Once I
saw Craig cast a quick glance at the tray, and I understood that
in some way he was anxious to have a chance to investigate those
cigarettes.
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