"But, Tom, what shall I do about those papers?" Mrs. Damon asked
him. "Shall I send them?"
"Indeed not!"
"But I want Mr. Damon restored to me," she pleaded. "I don't care
about the money. He can make more."
"Well, we'll not give those scoundrels the satisfaction of getting
any money out of you. Just wait now, I'll work this thing out, and
find a way to catch that fellow. If I could only think what that
buzzing sound was--"
Then, in a flash, it came to Tom.
"A sawmill! A planing mill!" he cried. "That's what it was! That
fellow was telephoning from some place near a sawmill!"
The telephone rang in the midst of Tom's excited comments.
"Yes--yes!" he called eagerly. "Who is it--what is it?"
"This is Larsen--the private detective you sent."
"Oh, yes, you were at the drug store."
"Yes, Mr. Swift. Well, that party didn't call up from here."
"I know, Larsen. It was from another station. We're after him.
Much obliged to you. Come on back."
Tom was sure his theory was right. The man had called up the Damon
house from some telephone near a sawmill. And a little later Tom's
theory was proved to be true. He got a report from the second
detective. Unfortunately the man had not been able to reach the
telephone station before the unknown speaker had departed.
"Was the place near a sawmill?" asked Tom, eagerly.
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