He mopped his brow again, put on his hat, nodded to Fenton Hardy, and clumped out of the room. Detective Smuff, putting his notebook into his pocket, followed. The door closed behind them.
Mr. Hardy sat back with a gesture of despair.
“They’ll spoil everything,” he said. “They’re just so clumsy that Red Jackley will close up like a clam if they try to make him talk.”
“Perhaps,” remarked Frank significantly, “they’ll miss their train.”
At that moment the telephone rang. Mr. Hardy answered it.
“Hello—yes, this is Fenton Hardy—yes—oh, yes, doctor—he is—well, well—is that so?—won’t live until morning—I can see him?—fine—thank you—goodbye.”
He put back the receiver.
“There,” he said wearily, “just my luck! Red Jackley is dying, and the doctor says I can see him tonight. But Collig and Smuff will have first right to talk to him, for they are officials and I’m only a private detective. If Jackley confesses, they’ll have the credit for it.”
“They’ll just have to miss their train,” said Frank. “Come on, Joe. Let’s see what we can do.”