“Oh, if only we had installed a telephone at The Mansion,” Rosemary fretted, as Nancy Drew’s roadster sped along over the smooth road toward Cliffwood.

“Isn’t there any house along the road where we can stop to call the police?” Nancy questioned. “It would save us considerable time.”

Rosemary shook her head.

“There aren’t any houses until we get almost into Cliffwood.”

“Then we may as well drive straight to the sheriff’s office,” Nancy decided. “It’s only a short distance, anyway. A few minutes delay ought not to make such a big difference.”

“But it may,” Floretta declared uneasily. “I believe Nathan is beginning to be suspicious. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have come to us this morning with the offer to buy the house.”

Nancy did not respond, but concentrated her attention upon the road before her. In exactly twelve minutes flat she brought the automobile to a quivering halt in front of the sheriff’s office.

Switching off the engine, she sprang from the car, and, with the Turnbull sisters close behind her, ran into the building. The sheriff, the picture of repose, with his feet comfortably placed on the top of a roll-top desk, was laughing and talking with several men who were seated about the room. As Nancy Drew and the two women came in, he swung his feet to the floor and eyed them with respectful attention.

“Anything I can do for you?” he inquired.

Without mincing words, Nancy quickly told of the strange things that had happened at the Turnbull house and of the discoveries she had made. At various points, Rosemary and Floretta corroborated her story.

“I want you to arrest Nathan Gombet,” Nancy ended. “He is the guilty man.”

The sheriff scratched his head in perplexity.

“Well, I don’t know what to say. Nathan Gombet is no friend of mine and folks say he’s a little queer, but I never heard of his doing any harm.”

“There’s always a first time,” Rosemary snapped.

“He’s just a clever crook⁠—that’s all,” Nancy declared impatiently. “Don’t you believe our story? We can show you the staircase.”

“Yes, I believe your story, all right,” the sheriff said hastily. “But I dasn’t proceed without evidence. You can’t arrest a man unless you’ve some proof he’s guilty.”

“What more proof do you want?” Rosemary interposed tartly.

“Well, if you’d found the silver urn in his house, or something like that⁠—”

“If my father were here, he’d convince you all right,” Nancy said, with rising temper.

“Your father?”

“Yes, Carson Drew.”

“You don’t mean Carson Drew, the lawyer from River Heights? You’re his daughter?”

“I am.”

“Well, that’s different. Why didn’t you say so at first?”

“What has that to do with the case?”

“Well, I reckon a daughter of Carson Drew knows what she’s about. If you say Nathan Gombet is a crook, I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, it seems to me you’ve taken plenty of time to make up your mind,” Nancy said sarcastically.

The sheriff, thus goaded to action, turned to the other men in the room. His indolent manner fell from him.

“Come on, boys!” he shouted.

Turning to Nancy he ordered:

“You lead the way and we’ll follow.”

Nancy nodded, and with Floretta and Rosemary hurried outside to the waiting roadster.

“I never could stand that sheriff,” Rosemary commented. “You can see now why we didn’t like to put the matter in his hands before. He would have made a mess of it.”

“I can see all right,” Nancy admitted dryly.

She sprang into the car and the Turnbull sisters climbed in beside her. She started the motor and waited impatiently for the sheriff and his deputies. The moment the police car was ready to leave, she shifted gears and was off.

As the two cars raced down the side streets of Cliffwood, many passersby turned to stare curiously after them. Nancy did not notice, for she was intent only upon one thing, and that was to reach the old stone house before Nathan Gombet had an opportunity to escape or to hide the booty he had stolen from the Turnbull mansion.

“The sheriff may be stupid enough to refuse to arrest him unless he finds evidence on the place,” she thought, in disgust.

She drove swiftly and soon came within sight of the gloomy old stone house owned by the miser. Believing that it would be wisest to approach cautiously and not give an alarm, she slowed down. To her chagrin the police car raced ahead and roared down the driveway. It came to a sudden halt in front of the house.

The sheriff sprang from the automobile and turned to his men.

“Surround the house!” he ordered crisply. “We won’t take any chance on letting that old boy get away!”

“Oh, why does that sheriff have to be so dramatic?” Nancy murmured, in alarm. “After all this noise, it will be a wonder if Nathan Gombet doesn’t slip through the secret tunnel and escape. That will ruin everything!”

Impatiently, she opened the door of the roadster and started to get out, but Floretta held her back.

“Don’t go,” she begged. “There may be shooting!”

Nancy permitted herself to be pulled back into the safety of the automobile. From there, the three watched the sheriff with misgiving. They saw him walk up to the back door and knock. When there was no response, he knocked again. He tried the door, but it was locked. Then he peeped in at the kitchen window.

“No one at home,” he muttered in disgust, turning away.

Nancy could stand it no longer. Springing from the roadster, she ran toward the sheriff.

“You can’t expect Nathan Gombet to welcome you with open arms after all the noise you made coming up the drive,” she cried. “He’d be more apt to welcome you with buckshot! He’s probably watching now from an upstairs window. We’d all make good targets!”

The sheriff glanced anxiously upward and stepped closer to the house.

“It’s pretty serious business to go breaking into a man’s house,” he said, somewhat crestfallen, “unless you’re mighty sure you’ve got the right man.”

“Nathan Gombet is the right man!”

“Well, maybe he is, I don’t know.” The sheriff’s old doubt was returning to assail him anew. “I suppose I could ram the door, but I don’t like to do it.”

“I’ll assume the responsibility,” Nancy said shortly.

“All right, we’ll do it.”

“There’s an easier way.”

“How do you mean?”

“Climb through the cellar window and get in that way. There’s a stairway from the cellar leading to the kitchen.”

“That’s an idea.”

The sheriff motioned to his deputies, and Nancy led the way to the cellar window. One by one the men crawled in. Nancy hesitated an instant, and then she followed.

Silently, she indicated the stairs leading to the kitchen. The sheriff and his deputies crept quietly up to the landing, and there they paused and listened. The house was as silent as a tomb.

Then unmistakably, there was a slight shuffling sound which seemed to come from the kitchen. The sheriff turned to a deputy near him and whispered into his ear:

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes, chief,” the deputy whispered in reply. “There’s someone hiding in that kitchen!”

“Get set, boys, we’ll see who it is!”

The sheriff placed his hand on the door knob and gave it a quick turn. The latch clicked. As the sheriff thrust open the door, he started back involuntarily, for he stood looking straight into the muzzle of a sawed off shotgun, held in the hands of Gombet’s colored servant!