Mr. Dunston Porter had been down to Carpen Falls for a walk and to get the mail. He returned late that evening, bringing several letters with him. He was of course much surprised to learn of the capture of Link Merwell, and listened with interest to the details concerning the affair.

Among the letters which his uncle had brought along was one for Dave, which he read with deep interest. It was from Nat Poole, who evidently had not yet heard anything regarding his missing uncle.

"I want to tell you of what has happened here lately,"

(wrote Nat). "I have received two visits from a young fellow named Ward Porton, who is, I believe, a moving-picture actor, and the same fellow that you helped to rescue from a burning steam yacht. This fellow was in town once with Link Merwell, and then came here alone. He has been visiting a number of people who are well acquainted with you, and also visited the poorhouse here and talked to several of those in authority, and those who used to have the running of the poorhouse years ago, when you were an inmate there. This Ward Porton acted as if he had something of great importance on his mind, but what it was he would not tell, but he did let slip that it was something concerning you--that there was a big surprise in store for you. He also let slip that he, too, had been in a poorhouse when he was a little boy, and that he had never been able to learn where he had really come from.

"I am writing this to put you on your guard in case he should show himself either at your camp or at the Wadsworth mansion after your return. I must confess that I don't like the fellow's manner, and I rather surmise he is laying pipes to play you some trick."

Dave read this letter over several times, and was much perplexed. He had not forgotten what Link Merwell had said to him shortly after being captured, nor had he forgotten the fact that he had seen Link and Ward Porton in Crumville at the old Potts farm.

"Those fellows are certainly up to something," our hero told himself.

"Link said that I was not Dave Porter. Now, what did he mean by that?

Those fellows must be hatching up some plot against me."

"Dave, you look rather worried," remarked Phil, as he caught the youth reading the communication for the third time. "No bad news I hope?"

"I can't tell whether it is or not, Phil," was the reply. And Dave handed the letter to his chum.

"Phew! This looks like a mystery," was the comment of the shipowner's son. "Dave, do you think this had anything to do with what Link Merwell said when we caught him--that you were not Dave Porter?"

"That's the way it looks to me, Phil."

"But that's rank nonsense. We all know you are Dave Porter."

"Well, I've always thought I was Dave Porter, ever since I met my Uncle Dunston out in those South Sea Islands."

"Why of course you are! Don't you look just like your Uncle Dunston?

This is some game, Dave."

"I think so myself."

"What are you fellows confabbing about?" asked Roger, walking up.

"We're talking about a letter I just received," answered Dave. And then the senator's son also read the communication.

"Say, this is a mystery and no mistake!" was Roger's comment. "And so Nat thinks that Ward Porton is mixed up in it, eh? That is strange."

"What do you suppose he has to do with it, Roger?" questioned Phil.

"I am sure I don't know. But come to think of it, he did look like----"

And then Roger broke off in confusion.

"Look like what, Roger?" asked Dave, quickly.

"Oh, never mind, Dave, let's drop the subject and talk about what we are going to do with Link Merwell."

"I think I know what you were going to say," went on our hero, and he tried to speak calmly although his heart gave a sudden jump. "You were going to say that Ward Porton looked like my Uncle Dunston and like me."

"Well, if you must know it, Dave, that is what did come into my mind. I don't think he resembles you quite as much as he resembles your uncle, to be really honest."

"Oh, say, Roger, drop that!" interposed Phil, hastily. "I think Dave looks a good deal more like his uncle than Porton looks like Mr.

Porter."

"It's a queer mystery, that's certain," returned Dave, slowly. "I don't like it, I must say," and his face showed more concern than it had for a long while.

"Don't you take this too seriously, Dave!" cried Roger. "I believe at the most it's only some game gotten up by Link Merwell. Now that we have him a prisoner and can send him to jail for that robbery, more than likely you won't hear anything further about it."

"I sincerely hope you speak the truth," was our hero's sober reply.

After a plain but substantial meal, Link Merwell was taken to the woodshed and told he would have to remain there until morning. Then the boys cast lots to find out who should go on guard first.

"I'm number one," announced Phil, after drawing one of a number of slips of paper placed in a cap.

"And I follow you," announced Luke.

"I'm guard number three," came from Ben, and the other boys announced what slips they had drawn.

Usually the woodshed was dark, but now a lantern had been hung on a nail to illuminate the place. There were two doors, one connecting with the bungalow proper, and the other leading into the backyard of the place.

There was also a small window, over which in times past several stout wooden bars had been nailed to keep out prowling wild animals.

"Think I'll run away, eh?" remarked Link Merwell, as he sat down on the couch which had been placed in the woodshed.

"You'll not get the chance," returned Phil, who had armed himself with one of the double-barreled shotguns. "If you try to get away, Link, you'll get a dose of shot in you, just as sure as fate."

"Humph! I don't think I'll want to run away," grumbled the prisoner.

"There is no place to run to in this forsaken section of the country.

What you folks can find here to make it pleasant is a mystery to me."

The door leading to the outside had been closed and bolted. The other door leading to the bungalow proper was left open for ventilation, and Phil sat on a low stool beside it, with the shotgun across his knees.

"Are you quite sure you can manage him, Phil?" questioned Mr. Wadsworth, as he came to the doorway after the others in both bungalows had retired.

"Yes, I can manage him easily enough," returned the shipowner's son.

"I've got this, you see," and he tapped the shotgun suggestively.

"Well, don't have any shooting unless it becomes absolutely necessary,"

answered the jewelry manufacturer; and then he, too, retired.

For a short while Link Merwell lay down on the couch and turned over as if to go to sleep. But he was restless, and presently, when all was quiet, he turned over again and sat up.

"What are you going to do with me when you get me to Carpen Falls?" he questioned.

"We are going to hand you over to the authorities."

"Is Dave Porter going along to the Falls?"

"I don't know about that. That's for Mr. Wadsworth to say," answered Phil. "By the way," he continued, "what did you mean by telling Dave that he was not Dave Porter?"