“Well, you’ll learn. I’m much obliged to you, for bringing the papers. There, I’ve put them under Mr. Fielding’s book--not the baseball fielding, remember, Tom--and they’ll be safe until I want them, and I shan’t forget where they are.” “If you do I’ll try and help you remember,” said the boy with a laugh. Tom bade the doctor good-night, and started out of the door. As he opened the portal, and stepped into the faintly-lighted hall, he thought he heard the rustle of a woman’s dress, and he was almost sure he saw a figure hastily disappearing around the corner. “That must have been Mrs. Sandow,” thought Tom, “and I believe she was listening at the doctor’s door. There’s something queer going on in this house, and I wish I knew what it was.” CHAPTER XIII A MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE There was a slight accident on the trolley line that night, when Tom was going home. A truck got stalled on the track, and it was nearly midnight when he got to the house, where he found his mother anxiously waiting for him. “You poor boy!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? Did you have your supper?” “Oh, yes. When I found the trolleys were blocked I got out of the car, which happened to be near a small restaurant, and I had a nice little meal. I had to go to Dr. Spidderkins’ house for Mr. Boise.” “I think you have a good deal of night work to do, Tom.” “Well, I’m the youngest member of the firm,” replied her son jokingly. “I’ve got to do the hard work until I rise in my profession.” Tom fell asleep vainly wondering whether or not he had better mention to Mr. Boise the suspicions he had concerning Barton Sandow and his wife. But, in the morning, he decided he had better not interfere with what did not concern him. “I’ll wait until I have some better proof, before I say anything,” he thought. “Maybe I’m making a mountain out of a mole-hill.” For a week or more events went along smoothly at the law office where Tom was employed. He was getting to be quite expert at the switchboard, and seldom made a mistake. Try as he did, however, he could not seem to please Mr. Cutler. That lawyer was continually finding fault, even when Tom got for him the required connections in almost record-breaking time. “You’re worse than the other boy we had!” exclaimed the junior member one day, when Tom had cut him off a second or two before he was through. Then Mr. Cutler strode into the room occupied by Mr. Boise. As he left the door partly open Tom could not help hearing part of what was said. “Why don’t you discharge that boy and hire a good one?” asked the junior partner, wrathfully. “What boy?” asked Mr. Boise, who had a habit of becoming so deeply immersed in thinking of a case, that often questions had to be repeated several times. “That telephone boy--Tom Baldwin. He’s more bother than he’s worth.” “Why, I thought he was doing good work. I have no trouble getting my connections. What seems to be the difficulty?”