The clerk started back.
"Did he have a visit from one of his detectives?"
"Yes."
"What was it about?"
The clerk winced. "I don't know," he replied, "honest--I don't."
Craig waved the gun for emphasis. "Open the safe," he said.
Reluctantly the clerk obeyed. Under the point of the gun he
searched every compartment and drawer of the big chrome steel
strong-box which Whitney had pointed out as the safest place for
the dagger on our first visit to him. But there was absolutely no
trace of it. Had we been hoaxed and was all this risk in vain?
"Where did Mr. Whitney go?" demanded Craig, as he directed the
clerk to shut the door and lock the safe again, baffled.
"If I should try to tell you," returned the man, very much
frightened, "I would be lying. You would soon find out. Mr.
Whitney doesn't make a confidant of me, you know."
It was useless. If he had the dagger, at least we knew that it was
not at the office. We had learned only one thing. He had had a
visit from one of his detectives.
As fast as the uptown trend of automobiles and surface cars during
the rush hour would permit, Kennedy and I hurried in a taxicab to
the Prince Edward Albert in the hope of surprising him there.
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