The note which puzzled the Hardy boys was as follows:

Messrs. Frank and Joseph Hardy,
Bayport.

Dear Sirs:

“If it is convenient for you to call upon me at my residence tomorrow I should like to talk to you about a matter that has been in my mind since my return from Europe. If you will be good enough to call early tomorrow afternoon I will explain further.

“A matter that has been in his mind ever since his return from Europe,” said Frank. “I wonder what it can be.”

“Well, we recovered his automobile for him from the Shore Road thieves,” ventured Joe.

“What has that to do with it?” asked Fenton Hardy, smiling.

“Mr. Jefferson wasn’t in Bayport at the time. You remember, we got a big reward for clearing up that case and the owners of the stolen cars contributed to it. But as Mr. Jefferson was away, he wasn’t in on that. Perhaps he wants to add to it,” said Joe hopefully.

Fenton Hardy shook his head in amusement.

“I thought you did very well. Surely you aren’t looking for more money.”

“Oh, we’re not looking for more. Still, if Mr. Jefferson feels hurt because he couldn’t show his appreciation, why, we wouldn’t turn down any offer,” and Joe grinned.

“I don’t know Mr. Jefferson,” said Frank. “What’s he like, Dad?”

“He is an antique dealer,” returned Mr. Hardy. “He is quite well known in his own field. He travels in Europe a great deal, buying antiques. Of late years he has kept very much to himself. I believe he has made a great deal of money, and in his time he was one of the leading experts in antique furniture in the country.”

“Isn’t he still an expert?”

“Oh, yes. But he isn’t as prominent as he once was. Something happened to him a few years ago that made the old fellow very queer. I don’t remember exactly what it was; but since that time he has been something of a character.”

“Sounds interesting,” commented Joe. “Well, I guess we’d better go and see him tomorrow, hadn’t we, Frank?”

“Sure thing. We can ask him why he keeps such a tough-looking watchman on Cabin Island.”

“A watchman?” exclaimed Fenton Hardy.

“Yes. We landed there this afternoon and a man told us to clear out. Said we were trespassing.”

“That doesn’t sound like Elroy Jefferson,” said Mr. Hardy. “I’m sure he wouldn’t give any such orders. As far as I remember him, he has always been a rather kindly old chap.”

“We thought perhaps he had sold the island.”

“I haven’t heard of its changing hands. I can’t imagine why he would have a watchman there in the winter, anyway. Ask him about it when you see him tomorrow.”

The next morning, although the boys had discussed the note from Mr. Jefferson many times, they had still failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to the reason why he should want them to call on him; so they were awaiting the interview with curiosity and expectation.

That morning, while on an errand downtown for their mother, the brothers met Callie Shaw and Iola Morton. Both girls attended the Bayport high school and were in the same grade as the Hardy boys. Callie, a brown-eyed, brown-haired girl, was Frank’s particular favorite among the girls at school, while Iola, plump and dark, Chet Morton’s sister, was the only girl who had ever won even a reluctant admiration from the bashful Joe, who had even gone so far as to admit that she was “all right⁠—as a girl.” Which, from Joe, was high praise.

“Well, it’s good to see you alive!” exclaimed Callie. “From what we’ve been hearing, it’s lucky you’re able to come downtown at all today.”

“Yes,” chimed in Iola, “Chet has been telling me all about it. I should think you’d have been patting yourself on the back ever since.”

The boys looked at one another blankly.

“What yarn has Chet been springing now?” asked Frank.

“No yarn. He was telling us how narrowly you all escaped being killed out on the bay yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, that!” laughed Frank. “It wasn’t so bad. We might have got bumped about a bit, but we were lucky.”

“That’s letting you tell it!” exclaimed Iola. “Chet says that if it hadn’t been for the way you handled that iceboat, Frank, there would have been a terrible smash-up.”

“Oh, Chet usually exaggerates,” said Frank uncomfortably.

“You’re too modest,” put in Callie quickly. “He told us all about it. I think you deserve a lot of credit, Frank.”

“You bet he does!” cried Joe warmly, oblivious of his brother’s embarrassment. “He saved our lives.”

“And as for those other boys!” continued Callie. “If that Ike Nash or Tad Carson ever dare speak to me again I’ll go past them with my nose in the air. Won’t you, Iola?”

“I certainly will. And I’m going to tell the other girls about it, too. I think it was mean of them, and I’m glad their old boat got smashed.”

“Oh, I guess they’ve suffered enough,” said Frank. “No use rubbing it in.”

“If they had smashed your boat they would have told the story all over Bayport. I’m certainly glad it turned out the way it did,” said Callie.

“Drat that Chet,” muttered Frank, after the girls had gone on down the street. “Why can’t he keep quiet? He’ll be making me out a hero if he keeps up. I didn’t want anything said about that affair.”

“Well, only two girls know about it now,” returned Joe, comfortingly.

“Only two girls!” snorted Frank. “He might as well have published it in the newspaper.”

Nevertheless he was inwardly pleased by Callie’s evident concern over his narrow escape and by her admiration of the way he had acquitted himself in the emergency.

That afternoon, immediately after lunch, the Hardy boys set out for the handsome Jefferson home on the Shore Road. The place was not far away, and as the snow was too deep to permit of using their motorcycles, the boys went on foot. Before they had come within sight of the place they met a chum, Biff Hooper, who frequently accompanied the Hardy boys on their adventures.

They found Biff, who was pugilistically inclined, dancing about in the snow, making wild dashes and lunges at an imaginary sparring partner. He did not see Frank and Joe at first and when they came up to him he had evidently just put the finishing touches to the invisible antagonist, for he was breathing heavily and, as he looked down into the snow, he was counting! “Seven⁠—eight⁠—nine⁠—ten⁠—Out!”

“Hurrah for the new champion!” shouted Joe. “Did you knock him out, Biff?”

Biff swung around quickly and looked very foolish.

“Just doing a little shadowboxing,” he explained, very red in the face. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Practising to clean up on the championship?” asked Frank pleasantly. “Whoever he was, you knocked him right off the map.”

“Say,” said Biff, anxious to change the subject, “I’ve been wanting to see you fellows.”

“Looking for a fight?” asked Joe. “Sorry, but we’ve decided not to do any fighting until after Christmas because Santa Claus mightn’t like it and then he wouldn’t put anything in our stockings. You want to be careful, Biff. If Santa hears you’ve been shadowboxing out in the main road you mightn’t get any lollipops on Christmas Eve.”

“Aw, dry up,” grumbled Biff. “I’ve been wanting to see you⁠—no kidding.”

“What about?”

“What are you going to do in the Christmas holidays?”

“Don’t know,” replied Frank. “We haven’t made any plans yet. I guess we’ll just hang around town. We’ve got the iceboat, and there’ll be some skating.”

“How about an outing of some kind? I’ve had that in my mind for the past two or three days. Don’t you think we could all get away somewhere and go camping.”

“Sounds good,” approved Joe. “Where shall we camp?”

“I don’t know. I thought you chaps could look after that end of it.”

“It isn’t so easy to go camping in winter. In summer there are lots of places.”

“Well, think it over,” said Biff. “If you think of a good place and decide to go, be sure and let me know. I’d like to be in on it.”

“Sure thing. We wouldn’t leave you out, Biff.”

“If we could get away right after school closes we could have a good long holiday in camp.”

“How about Christmas?” inquired Joe doubtfully. “We shouldn’t want to miss Christmas, should we?”

“Worrying about your presents?”

“I’d hate to miss them.”

“Maybe we could get them before we went.”

“In that case,” said Joe, relieved, “I wouldn’t care when we went to camp.”

“Well, think it over.” Biff made a vicious left swing at his imaginary sparring partner. “Be sure and let me know.”

Then he chased the invisible enemy down the road and was soon lost to sight around the bend.

“He’s going to miss one of those wild swings of his some day and knock himself out,” prophesied Joe. “I never did see a fellow so crazy about boxing.”

“He’s good at it. Still, that’s not a bad idea he has about camping during the Christmas holidays. We’ll talk it over with Chet.”

“Sure.”

The boys went on and in a short time they came to the Jefferson house. It was a large, gloomy mansion, set back some distance from the road, and when the boys went up the walk, which had been swept and shoveled clear of snow, it was with a quickening sense of anticipation.

They rang the bell.

“We’ll soon know what Mr. Jefferson wants to see us about,” said Frank.

The door opened.

The housekeeper, a prim, angular woman, regarded them silently for a moment.

“Mr. Jefferson asked us to call,” explained Frank.

“He is expecting you,” said the woman. “You will please come in.”

They stepped into a gloomy hall and the housekeeper ushered them toward a reception room.

“Please be good enough to wait,” she said stiffly. “Mr. Jefferson is engaged at present.”

Then she went away, her skirts swishing.

Frank and Joe Hardy sat uncomfortably on the extreme edges of their chairs and looked at the enormous family portraits on the walls. They could hear voices from a living room beyond. At first they could not distinguish anything that was being said⁠—not that they listened⁠—there being a mere hum of conversation, but suddenly one of the men in the next room raised his voice, sharply:

“I don’t see why you won’t sell, Mr. Jefferson! I offer a good price.”

It was evident that the speaker was angry and perturbed.

Then, in another voice, also raised, came the reply:

“The island is not for sale at any price, Mr. Hanleigh, and that settles it.”

This, presumably was Elroy Jefferson, the antique dealer. The other man expostulated.

“But you know very well I’m offering more money than⁠—”

“I do not care to discuss it!” returned Mr. Jefferson. “The island is not for sale. That’s final! No! No! I don’t care to talk about it any more. You are only wasting your time. Good day to you, sir.”