But there he was, shut out from his own room by lock and bolt, and dressed in nothing but a suit of pajamas.
The adventure had a.s.sumed a ludicrous aspect. Frank wondered what he could do. It was certain that they would not break into his room at that hour of the night, for the sound of bursting the bolt would disturb other sleepers.
The watchman came down the corridor. He saw Frank and came onward with haste, plainly wondering what Merry was doing there.
"Look here," said Frank, "I want to know the name of the man who occupies No. 231, this room next to mine."
"What is the matter?" asked the watchman.
"This person has disturbed me," said Frank, truthfully. "I am not going to raise a kick about it to-night, but I shall report it to the clerk in the morning."
"Does he snore loudly?" inquired the watchman. "I didn"t think you could hear through those part.i.tions."
"Here," said Frank, who had seen the watchman before, "you know me. My name is Merriwell. I haven"t a cent in these pajamas, but I"ll give you two dollars in the morning if you will go down to the office, look on the register, find out who occupies No. 231, and come back here and tell me."
Now it happened that Frank had given the watchman fifty cents the night before to do something for him, and so the man was persuaded to go down to the office, although it is quite probable that he did not expect to see the promised two dollars in the morning.
Frank waited.
The watchman came back after a time.
"Well," asked Merry, "did you look on the register and find out the name of the man who was given No. 231?"
"I did," nodded the watchman.
"What is his name?"
"William Shakespeare Burns," was the astonishing answer.
Frank staggered. He told the watchman he had made a mistake, but the man insisted that he had not. That was enough to excite Merry more than anything that had happened to date.
Could it be that Burns, the old actor, whom he had befriended, had sought his life?
It did not seem possible.
If it were true, then, beyond a doubt, the man had been bribed to do the deed by some person who remained in the background.
It did not take Frank long to tell the watchman what had happened. The man could scarcely believe it. He seemed to regard Merriwell as somewhat deranged.
"If you do not think I am telling the truth," said Merry, "get your keys and try my door. If you are able to open it, I shall be greatly pleased."
The watchman did so, but he could not open the door of the room.
"Now," said Merry, "to make yourself doubly sure, go down to the sidewalk in front of the hotel and you will find the rope there."
The man went down and found the rope. He came back greatly agitated.
"This is a most astonishing occurrence," he said. "Never knew anything like it to happen here before."
"Keep your eyes open for the man who had No. 231," said Merry. "I am going to take that room and sleep there the rest of the night. In the morning the door of my room must be opened for me."
He went into that room, closed the door, locked it and bolted it, closed and fastened the window, and went to bed. Of course he did not go to sleep right away, but he forced himself to do so, after a time, and he slept peacefully till morning.
In the morning Frank found the door of his room had been forced, so he was able to go in immediately on rising. He had been unable to obtain a room with a private bath connected, but there was a bathroom directly across the corridor, and he took his morning "dip," coming out as bright as a new dollar.
But the mystery of the midnight intruder weighed heavily on Merry. He felt that he would give anything to solve it, and it must be solved in some manner.
Bart came around before breakfast, and he found Merriwell standing in the middle of his room, scowling at the carpet. Frank was so unlike his accustomed self that Hodge was astounded.
"What"s happened?" asked Bart.
"One of the most singular adventures of my life," answered Frank, and he proceeded to tell Bart everything.
"Singular!" cried Hodge. "I should say so! You are dead in luck to be alive!"
"I consider myself so," confessed Merry; "but I would give any sum to know who entered my room last night. Of course the name on the register was false."
"Are you certain?"
"Certain! Great Scott! You do not fancy for an instant that Burns was the man, do you?"
"I don"t know."
"Well, I do!"
"You mean you think you do."
"No; I mean that I know. Burns was not the man."
"How do you know?"
"Why, hang it, Hodge! Why should that unfortunate old fellow wish to harm me, who has been his friend?"
"Somebody may have hired him to do it."
"Oh, you"re daffy on that point! Reason will teach you that. If it had been Burns, he would not have registered under his own name. But I absolutely know it was not Burns I encountered. Besides being ridiculous that a man of his years and habits should venture to enter my room in such a manner, the man whom I encountered was supple, strong, and quick as a flash. Burns could not have fought like that; he could not have escaped in such an astonishing manner."
"Oh, well, perhaps not," admitted Hodge, who seemed reluctant to give up. "But I have warned you against Burns all along, and----"
"Oh, drop him now! Somebody else is trying to injure the poor fellow. I want to know who did the job last night, and W. S. Burns will not be able to tell me anything."
Bart had no more to say, and they went down to breakfast together.
Of course the hotel people promised to do everything possible to discover who had made the a.s.sault, but Frank had little confidence in their ability to accomplish anything. In fact, he believed the time had pa.s.sed to do anything, for it seemed that his enemy had escaped from the hotel without leaving a trace behind him.
Frank thought over the list of enemies who had sought to injure him since he entered theatricals, and he was startled. Three of his enemies were dead. Arthur Sargent had been drowned; Percy Lockwell was lynched, and Leslie Lawrence met his death in the quicksands of Big Sandy River.
Of his living enemies, who might be desperate enough to enter his room and seek to harm him Philip Scudder stood alone.