"Hush!" exclaimed Mort, placing his fingers over his lips as an additional signal of caution. "Get away from here, Bert; Mr. Muchmore is coming!"

"But," went on the boy, "I have--"

"Don't say a word. Hurry away. I'll try to see you to-night, at the barn. Go, before--"

He did not finish the sentence, but hurriedly shut the shutters, and closed the window. Bert took the hint, and glided into the woods, where he could not be observed. He gave one look back at the mysterious house, and once more he saw that the window, from which Mort had looked, was open. But the stenographer did not peer forth.

Instead, the face of Muchmore appeared. The man looked around carefully, as if to see if anyone had been communicating with inmates of the house. Then, apparently satisfied, as he saw nothing suspicious, he pulled the shutters tightly together, and closed the window.

"Well, things are happening in a bunch," thought Bert, as he made his way toward the village. "First I get a queer message I can't make head or tail of, and then Mort warns me away from the house. I wonder what he wants to tell me to-night? It must have something to do with the Stockton place."

Bert almost wished that a fire alarm might come in, so that the time would pa.s.s more quickly. But the day dragged along, and there was no occasion for taking out either of the engines.

After supper, as was his custom, the young chief visited the two fire-houses, to see that both apparatuses were in readiness for a run in the night. The tanks were kept filled, and the lanterns were lighted as soon as it grew dark.

Bert first went to the town hall, where, in the bas.e.m.e.nt, he found Vincent and several members of "Corps No. 2," as it was known.

"Well, boys, all ready for a blaze?" asked Bert. "How's the machine, Vincent?"

"All right, I guess. We thought we were going to have a run, a while ago."

"How's that?"

"Pile of shavings near Sagger's new butcher shop caught fire, and made a lot of smoke. He came running in here, and wanted us to take the engine out, but I saw it didn't amount to anything, and I didn't want to waste a lot of chemicals on a blaze like that."

"What did you do?"

"We put it out with a few pails of water. He could have done the same, only he was too excited."

"And he is the man who said the bucket brigade was good enough,"

observed John Boll.

"I guess he's changed his mind," remarked Bert. "I'm going over to Cole's barn," he added. "It's my night on duty."

Bert found Cole and several of his chums engaged in games of checkers and dominoes in the barn, which had been fitted up as much as possible like a fire-house. Bert greeted his chums, and then sat down, to await, with what patience he could, the promised arrival of Mort.

"I hope he comes," thought the boy. "I'd like to get at the bottom of this."

It was nearly nine o'clock when Mort looked in at the open door of the barn and nodded to Bert.

"I'll be back in a little while, boys," said the young chief, as he followed the stenographer outside. There was an oil lamp in the driveway leading to the street, and Bert, pausing under it, pulled out the queer slip of paper, and showed it to Mort.

"I thought maybe you might know something about this," he said.

"Where did you get it?"

"I picked it up right near where you saw me, under the window. Some one threw it out."

"So, that's why you were there, eh? I couldn't imagine. I thought you were trying to find out something about that house of mystery."

"So I was. Why did you warn me away?"

"Because, as I told you, Muchmore was right there. I happened to see you when I was at work, in the place he has fitted up as an office, and I didn't want you to get into trouble. You were on his private land, and he would just as soon as not have you arrested."

"I'm not afraid of that. But what do you make of this message?"

Mort, who had not closely examined the paper before, started as he caught sight of it.

"Why, that was written on my typewriter!" he exclaimed. "I mean on the one Muchmore bought for me to use. I can tell, because the letter 'e'

prints a little bit out of alignment."

"Who wrote it?" asked Bert. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't know who wrote it. Some one must have gone to my typewriter when I was away, or maybe it was done at night."

"Could it have been the old housekeeper?" asked Bert. "Maybe she is in trouble, and this looks like an appeal for aid."

"No. Mrs. Blarc.u.m is afraid to touch the machine. Besides, she doesn't even know how to put the paper in."

"Muchmore wouldn't have tossed out a message like that, I suppose?"

"No. Besides, he knows how to work the machine, and he'd use the proper lettering. Anyhow, he'd have no occasion to do such a thing."

"Then what can it be?" inquired Bert, much puzzled.

"Certainly someone is in trouble," agreed Mort. "The word 'help' shows that. Properly written the message would look like this, and on the back of the paper he wrote:

"Help! I am a priso"

"What's that last word?" asked Bert. "I thought it might have been meant for 'poison.' What do you think?"

Mort was silent a moment. Then he exclaimed:

"I have it! It's 'prisoner'! That's what it is!"

"Prisoner?"

"Yes."

"But who could be imprisoned there?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's a lunatic, or some poor fellow whom Muchmore has fleeced out of all his money by gambling."

"Then he is a gambler?"

"Yes; but how did you know?"

"Well, it is rumored so in the village."