He did not close his eyes that night. Daybreak found him lying in bed, with the box under his pillow, a pistol at hand, and his eyes wide- open. He was in a graver quandary than ever. Now that he had the treasure in his possession, what was he to do with it? He did not dare to leave it in the room, nor was it advisable to carry it about with him. The discovery of the burglary in room 30 would result in a search of the house, from top to bottom.
Cold perspiration started out on his brow. The situation was far from being the happy one that he had anticipated.
He solved the breakfast problem by calling downstairs for a waiter and ordering coffee and rolls and eggs sent up to his room. Singularly enough the waiter solved the other and more disturbing problem for him.
"SOME robbery last night," said that worthy, as he re-appeared with the tray. Barnes was thankful that the waiter was not looking at him when he hurled the bomb, figuratively speaking. He had a moment's time to recover.
"What robbery?" he enquired, feigning indifference.
"Feller up in one of the cottages at the sanatorium. All beat up, something fierce they say."
"Up in--Where?" almost shouted Barnes, starting up.
The man explained where the cottages were situated, Barnes listening as one completely bereft of intelligence.
"Seems he was to leave by auto early this mornin', and they didn't know anything was wrong till Joe Keep--he's driving a Fierce-Arrow that Mr. Norton has for rent--till Joe'd been settin' out in front for nearly half an hour. The man's wife was waitin' fer him up at the main buildin' and she got so tired waitin' that she sent one of the clerks down to see what was keeping her husband. Well, sir, him and Joe couldn't wake the feller, so they climb in an open winder, an' by gosh, Joe says it was terrible. The feller was layin' on the bed, feet an' hands tied and gagged, and blood from head to foot. He was inconscious, Joe says, an'--my God, how his wife took on! Joe says he couldn't stand it, so he snook out, shakin' like a leaf. He says she's a pippin, too. Never seen a purtier--"
"Is--is the man dead?" cried Barnes, aghast. He felt that his face was as white as chalk.
"Nope! Seems like it's nothing serious: just beat up, that's all. Terrible cuts on his head and--"
"What is his name?" demanded Barnes.
"Something like Hackensack."
"Have they caught the thief?"
"I should say not. The police never ketch anything but drunks in this burg, and they wouldn't ketch them if they could keep from stumblin'."