“Yes, it’s a good thing to be so interested,” returned Tom dryly. He passed on, but took a position where he could watch the man without himself being observed. It was hot in the workshop. Beads of perspiration came out on Barsky’s forehead, and as he mopped them away with a big, blue handkerchief, Tom, from his hiding place, saw something that made him exclaim: “The fellow’s wearing a wig!” Wild ideas ran through Tom Swift’s mind. “I’ll set a trap for him,” he decided. The quitting whistle blew. True to his statement, the Russian worked on, though other men laid aside their tools. Tom remained in his hiding place, but it was now getting dark in the shop and he could see little. It was not until shortly before noon the following day that Tom had a chance to put into operation his plan of laying a trap for Barsky. In the meanwhile nothing new had developed in the matter of discovering the red-haired man. Carrying out his plan, Tom went to a small room in the rear of his office where he sometimes carried out delicate experiments. From there he caused to be sent to the suspect a message that he was wanted. The approach to this little room was along a narrow corridor where there was not room for two to pass. When Tom heard Barsky approaching in answer to the summons, the young inventor hurried out, timing himself to meet the Russian in the corridor. To keep the matter secret, Tom had arranged to be alone in this part of the building. “Ah, you sent for me, Mr. Swift?” asked the man. “Eet is a plaisair for to come to so distinguished an inventor.” Thus the man exclaimed as he saw Tom coming toward him out of the little room. But Tom gave the fellow no chance to do anything, had such been his intention. Brushing up against the suspect, as though to pass him in the narrow corridor, Tom raised his hand and brushed the big mop of black hair on Barsky’s head. A moment later the wig of hair came off and with it the bushy black beard that all but hid the fellow’s face. “Ah, I thought so!” cried Tom, as he saw closely-cropped red hair, heretofore hidden by the wig. “You’re a prison bird all right, Barsky—or whatever your name is. I’ve found you out!” For a moment the man was so taken by surprise that he could only stand with open mouth, gasping. Then, suddenly, rage seemed to take possession of the red-haired rascal—the same sort of rage that must have actuated him in his attack on Mr. Swift, Eradicate and Mrs. Baggert. Before he could speak, however, Tom cried: “You’re through here, you dirty scoundrel! Get your time and clear out! And don’t think you’re going to have it end there. I’m going to have you arrested!” “Oh, you are, eh?” sneered the man, and, realizing that his disguise had been effectually penetrated, all trace of his pretended Russian accent disappeared. He spoke ordinary English. “So you think you’ve found me out, do you? Well, you’ve got another guess coming, Tom Swift! I’m not half through with you!”