"Certainly someone is in trouble," agreed Mort. "The word 'help' shows that. Properly written the message would look like this, and on the back of the paper he wrote: "Help! I am a priso" "What's that last word?" asked Bert. "I thought it might have been meant for 'poison.' What do you think?" Mort was silent a moment. Then he exclaimed: "I have it! It's 'prisoner'! That's what it is!" "Prisoner?" "Yes." "But who could be imprisoned there?" "I don't know. Maybe it's a lunatic, or some poor fellow whom Muchmore has fleeced out of all his money by gambling." "Then he is a gambler?" "Yes; but how did you know?" "Well, it is rumored so in the village." "Yes. He is a gambler, and something more. I believe he is a worse criminal. He has had several gambling parties at his house. Men come after dark, in automobiles, along the private road. Sometimes they arrive in the motor boat from the other side of the lake. They don't pass through the village at all. Oh, I see and hear things that Muchmore never suspects I know about." "But what makes you think he is a criminal?" "Because he has had me doing some queer work lately." "What kind?" "Making copies of old deeds and mortgages. Now, no man has deeds and mortgages copied unless he is going to dispose of property, and all this property is in the name of Harris Stockton, his uncle. I believe Muchmore is up to some crooked game." "But where is Mr. Stockton?" "That's what I can't find out. Muchmore says he is in Europe, and I often write for him letters addressed to his uncle, which are directed to different cities in France and Germany. But Muchmore always mails them himself. I don't know where Mr. Stockton is. If I did I'd send him word of what is going on in his house, and what I suspect his nephew is up to." "But what about this queer message?" asked Bert. "I'm sure I don't know what to say. There is some mystery about it. I will try and get on the track of it, but to do that I must get up on the top floor, and that is a place Muchmore carefully guards. Perhaps you can help me." "I'm afraid not, but I'll try." "Do," urged the stenographer. "I'll see you again, and--" At that instant the fire alarm began ringing, and Bert rushed back to the barn. CHAPTER XXIII A BRAVE RESCUE "Run her out, boys!" cried Bert. "It's the box at Needham's factory. If the factory gets going it'll be the worst fire we ever had in this town!" Needham's factory was one where boxes for various purposes were made, and it was filled with inflammable material. The young firemen needed no urging. They sprang to their places. The bell on the engine sent out its warning note, as they wheeled the machine from the barn. The reel clicked as the long rope was unwound. "Come on!" cried Bert, as he took his place at the head of the line. "That's the way to run her out!" exclaimed the stenographer admiringly, as the boys swept past him.