"tell frAnk newTon Money is beHind coAl BoX, thiRd flooR, YoUr buiLDiNg—mARkHAm."
"Well," resumed Darry," Bob and I went up stairs here at once. None of the offices on the third floor has been occupied for a long time. In the hall is a big box with a slanting cover, to hold fuel for tenants in winter time. Everything was dirty, and plainly across the dusty box cover it showed where someone had recently rested, or been pushed over against the wall. We pulled out the box. Sure enough, in the four-inch space behind the box was your money."
"Then a hot wire, and here you are," observed Bob briskly.
"See here, fellows," said Frank, "I think I can figure this thing out."
"Go ahead," encouraged Darry.
"Markham sent that letter. He didn't write, because he had no pencil. A pencil is usually an easy thing to get, so he must have been shut up somewhere. He found in his pocket a sheet of paper—"
"Oh, by the way," here interrupted Darry," I forgot to explain something. I recognize the
