When the foremost motorcycle reached a place where the shore road formed a junction with another highway leading to the north, the rider brought his machine to a stop and waited for the others to draw alongside. He was a tall, dark youth of sixteen, with a clever, good-natured face. His name was Frank Hardy. “Where do we go from here?” he called out to the others. The two remaining motorcycles came to a stop and the drivers mopped their brows while the two other boys dismounted, glad of the chance to stretch their legs. One of the cyclists, a boy of fifteen, fair, with light, curly hair, was Joe Hardy, a brother of Frank’s, and the other lad was Chet Morton, a chum of the Hardy boys. The other youths were Jerry Gilroy and “Biff” Hooper, typical, healthy American lads of high school age. “You’re the leader,” said Joe to his brother. “We’ll follow you.” “I’d rather have it settled. We’ve started out without any particular place to go. There’s not much fun just riding around the countryside.” “I don’t much care where we go, as long as we keep on going,” said Jerry. “We get a breeze as long as we’re traveling, but the minute we stop I begin to sweat.” Chet Morton gazed along the shore road. “I’ll tell you what we can do,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go and visit the haunted house.” “Polucca’s place?” “Sure. We’ve never been out there.” “I’ve passed it,” Frank said. “But I didn’t go very close to the place, I’ll tell you.” Jerry Gilroy, who was a newcomer to Bayport, looked puzzled. “Where is Polucca’s place?” “You can see it from here. Look,” said Chet, taking him by the arm and bringing him over to the side of the road. “See where the shore road dips, away out near the end of Barmet Bay. Do you see that cliff?” “Yes. There’s a stone house at the top.” “Well, that’s Polucca’s place.” “Who is Polucca?” “Who _was_ Polucca, you mean,” interjected Frank. “He used to live there. But he was murdered.” “And that’s why the place is supposed to be haunted?” “Reason enough, isn’t it?” said Biff Hooper. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’ll tell the world there are some funny stories going around about that house ever since Polucca was killed.” “He must have been a strange fellow, anyway,” commented Jerry, “to build a house in such a place as that.” Indeed, the Polucca place had been built on an unusual site. High above the waters of the bay it stood, built close to the edge of a rocky and inhospitable cliff. It was some distance back from the road, and there was no other house within miles. The boys had traveled a little more than three miles since leaving Bayport, and the Polucca place was at least five miles away. It could hardly have been seen, had it not been for its prominent position on top of the cliff, silhouetted clearly against the sky.