“I don’t think he will. That wound in his side was enough to keep him laid up for a few days. And, anyway, he lost so much blood yesterday that it would take him a while to get back his strength.” “I hope he isn’t a detective.” “Why?” “It would be great if we could get a chance to do some work on this case ourselves. If Ganny Snackley is in this neighborhood and the government detectives don’t know of it, we would help dad land him.” “It _would_ be a great chance,” admitted Frank. “But I think we’ll find our friend Jones is a detective. That is, if we ever find out anything definite about him. Why else should Snackley and his men try to kill him? For there’s no doubt they left him for dead.” “Perhaps he was another smuggler that they wanted to get rid of.” “Maybe. But I think it’s most likely he is a Secret Service man.” At length they arrived at the lane leading from the main road to the farmhouse. As their motorcycles roared down the drive they watched for some sign of life about the place. But there was no one in the orchard or in the barnyard. No one came out of the house. The place appeared to be deserted and, although it was a warm day, the doors were closed. “This is queer,” remarked Frank, as they brought their motorcycles to a stop and left them in the shade of a large tree near the back of the house. “Mr. and Mrs. Kane couldn’t have gone away and left Jones there alone, could they?” The boys went up to the door and rapped. There was no answer. “Try the front door,” Joe suggested. After a number of futile efforts, they went to the front door of the farmhouse. But here, although they banged on the panels, there was likewise no response. “They must have gone out,” said Joe. “But what about Jones? They wouldn’t leave him here alone. I can’t understand this.” They went to the back door and rapped again and again. Still there was no answer. Frank tried the doorknob and found that the door swung open. “They didn’t lock the place up, anyway,” he said. “Let’s go in. If Jones is upstairs we’ll go up and see him. Mr. Kane won’t mind. Probably they didn’t expect callers to-day.” They went into the kitchen and here they were surprised by the scene of disorder that greeted their gaze. The previous day they had been impressed by the neatness of the room, for Mrs. Kane was evidently the soul of tidiness. Now the kitchen looked as though an earthquake had shaken it. Pots and pans were strewn about the floor. The table had been overturned. A chair lay upside down in a corner. A few cups and saucers lay in shattered bits beside the stove. The wood-box had been upset and the wood was scattered about. One window curtain had been partly torn from its fastenings. “What on earth has happened here!” Frank exclaimed, in profound astonishment. “Looks as if a cyclone came through.” “There’s something queer about this! There’s been a fight or a struggle of some kind here. Let’s see what the rest of the house looks like.”