“It might be only a coincidence. But when you come to think of it, that house on the cliff would be a mighty handy hang-out for smugglers if they could keep strangers away. And what better way than by starting a story that the place is haunted?” “Gosh, I never thought of that! I wonder what dad thinks of it.” “Perhaps he’s at home now. We’ll mention it to him.” But when they returned home for lunch they found that Fenton Hardy had not come back. Neither was he at home when school closed for the day; and when the Hardy boys went to bed that night there had not been the slightest word from their father nor any indication of where he had gone. In spite of the fact that they were accustomed to these sudden absences, the lads felt vaguely uneasy. “I don’t know why,” said Frank next morning, “but I have a sort of feeling that everything isn’t all right.” “I’ve been feeling that way myself. Of course, dad has often gone away from home like this without telling where he was going, and he has always turned up all right. But this time—” “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see. He knows his own business best, and it’s ten chances to one we’re worrying over nothing, but I have a sort of a hunch that there’s a nigger in the woodpile.” Mrs. Hardy, however, was not alarmed. “Oh, he’ll walk into the house when we’re least expecting him,” she laughed reassuringly. “You boys are just anxious to get to work on the Snackley case. Perhaps that’s what he’s working on now, he’ll probably come back with a lot of information.” “We’d rather he’d let us in on that,” returned Joe. “And keep you out of school! Oh, no. He doesn’t mind letting you do detective work as long as it’s in your spare time.” So the Hardy boys had to make the best of it. They concealed their impatience during the remainder of the week, doing their school work faithfully. The following week was the start of vacation, and the lads were deep in examinations for several days so that they had not much time to think of detective activities. But on Friday afternoon the mystery of their father’s absence took a strange turn. They came back from school to find their mother sitting in the living room, carefully examining a note that she had evidently just received. “Come here, boys,” she said, as they came into the room. “I want you to look at this and tell me what you think of it.” She handed the note over to Frank. “What is it?” he asked, quickly. “Word from dad?” “It’s supposed to be.” The Hardy boys read the note. It was written in pencil on a torn sheet of paper and the handwriting seemed to be that of Fenton Hardy. The note read: “I won’t be home for several days. Don’t worry.” It was signed by the detective. That was all. There was nothing to indicate where he was, nothing to show when the note had been written. “When did you get this?” asked Frank. “It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the envelope had a Bayport postmark.”