and registered under the name of Peter Smith, of Pittsburgh. All he had was a small valise, and that is still in his room."
"Anything in it?"
"I don't know. We can go up and take a look."
"It's a pity you didn't catch the rascal, whoever he is," was Tom's comment.
"Wait," whispered Dick, to his brothers. "I've got something to tell you."
All passed upstairs in an elevator, and the clerk led the way to the room which the patron calling himself Peter Smith had occupied. All the apartment contained was a rusty-looking valise.
"Must have picked that up at some second-hand store," was Sam's comment.
The valise was unlocked and the clerk opened it. It contained nothing but a comb and brush and some magazines.
"Humph! A dead beat!" muttered the clerk. "He put the magazines inside to make the valise feel as if it was filled with clothing. It's an old game. He intended to leave without paying his bill. I wish you had collared him!"
"I wish I had," answered Dick; and then he and his brothers returned to their own rooms.
