"Do you get any letters for him?" "Yes, quite a few." "Then don't you forward them?" "No, for I don't know where to send them. Besides, that nephew of his calls for the mail, and takes the letters addressed to Mr. Stockton, as well as his own. I don't believe Mr. Stockton is in Europe." "Then where is he?" "That's more than I know, Bert. It's something I don't have time to bother about, with the increase in the mail, and my eyesight getting poorer and poorer each day. I can't read as many postals as I used to." "Then if I wrote a letter to Mr. Stockton, you don't think he'd get it?" "I don't know. I do know that Muchmore would get it first. Maybe he forwards his uncle's mail." "I don't believe I'll write any letter then," thought Bert. "I have nothing only suspicions, at best. I think something wrong is going on at that house, but I can't prove it. I think Mr. Stockton ought to know about it, but I don't see any way of informing him. I wish I could have a talk with Mort Decker. Maybe he has found out something." Once he got thinking in this strain Bert found it hard to get his mind off the matter. As he had nothing in particular to do, he decided to take a stroll past the mysterious mansion. He knew of a road, through the woods, that would bring him to the rear of the house, without any one seeing him. He started off, passing through the back streets of the village, as he did not want to meet any of his chums just then. In a little while he was in the forest, and, proceeding along leisurely, so that if any persons did observe him they would not think he had any particular object, he reached the rear of the queer house. It seemed to be deserted. The shutters on the back were tightly closed, and there was no sign of life. "A queer old place," mused the boy. "I wonder what--" His musing was cut short by a sudden opening of the shutters on the topmost window. They were thrown violently back, as though whatever fastened them had been broken. At the same moment a hand was thrust out. It was a white hand, and it seemed to throw something from the window. Bert watched, and saw that the object was a bottle. The glass struck a stone and was broken. Then, from the bottle came a piece of white paper. The shutters were closed again. Wonderingly, Bert walked over and picked up the paper. On it was this mysterious message: "help i am a priso" CHAPTER XXII THE STENOGRAPHER'S SUSPICIONS Herbert stood gazing at the slip of paper in his hand. He did not know what to make of it. Then he looked up at the window whence it had been thrown. There was no sign of life there. Whoever had tossed out the mysterious message had disappeared again behind the dark shutters. "Well, this gets me," murmured the boy. "I wonder what it means? Is it a joke; or something serious?" Then another idea came to him.