Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery or, The Secret of the Log Cabin. Baker Willard F.

to have quite recovered now, except for the lump on the back of his head. “And I didn’t exactly see Rod myself. But I’d be willing to wager a marlin spike to a rope’s end that he had a hand in it.”

      Mr. Beegle headed for Bob’s machine, the engine of which was still running, but before starting off with the old man the young detective bethought him that he had better make a few inquiries.

      “Look here, Mr. Beegle,” said the lad frankly, “I’m very glad to be able to help you and give you a lift, but I must know that this is all straight. I don’t want to find out afterward that I’ve been taking part in a crime.”

      “A crime, what do you mean?” the old man seemed indignant.

      “I mean there’s been violence done to you. You carry something you intimate is valuable,” and Bob nodded toward the box. “You say some one tried to get it away from you. Now has there been a robbery – is that part of the spoil and is there a fight over the division of it? I have a right to know before I take you to Storm Mountain.”

      Mr. Beegle seemed greatly surprised and then a smile came over his grizzled face.

      “Young man, you’re right!” he exclaimed. “You have a right to know certain things. But I’ll tell you at once there has been no robbery. I came into possession of this box in a legal way, though some one would be glad to get it away from me. I inherited this. Here, I’ll prove it to you. Do you know Judge Weston?”

      “The lawyer? Of course I do!” exclaimed Bob.

      “Then stop at his office on the way to my cabin. Judge Weston will tell you how I came by this box. I’ll not say another word until you talk to Judge Weston.”

      Bob felt a trifle mean at seeming to doubt the old man’s word, but he felt he had a right to be assured that everything was all right. So, accordingly, he drove to the office of the lawyer, who had once been a county judge, the title still clinging to him as such titles will.

      “Hello, Mr. Beegle, back again!” greeted the lawyer, as Bob and his new friend entered. “Wasn’t everything in the box all right?”

      “Why, yes, Judge, I think so,” was the answer. “I only took a casual look inside, but all the papers seem to be there. But I ran into a little trouble after leaving your office,” and he told of the assault on him. “Then this young feller comes along,” resumed Hiram Beegle, “and offers to take me home. But he wants to be sure I didn’t steal this box,” and Mr. Beegle chuckled.

      “No, I can testify to that,” said Judge Weston with a smile. “You came into possession of it rightfully and legally. I can see Bob’s point though, and it is well taken, you being a stranger to him.

      “But it’s all right, Bob. I handed this box to Mr. Beegle about two hours ago. He inherited it under the will of Hank Denby, a client of mine who died in Fayetteville about a month ago. I have been settling up the Denby estate – what there was of it – and this box comes to Mr. Beegle. I just turned it over to him.”

      “And Rod Marbury didn’t have a share in it – did he?” asked the old man.

      “He was not mentioned in Mr. Denby’s will,” was the lawyer’s answer. “In fact, I know nothing of this Rod Marbury except what you have told me, Mr. Beegle. And you told me in confidence so I cannot reveal that.”

      “Oh, I don’t want to know any more!” broke in Bob. “I just wanted to know, after I heard there was a fight over the possession of this box, that Mr. Beegle had a right to it. Now I’ll take him home.”

      “That’s very kind of you, Bob,” said the former judge. “You have my word that everything is all right, as far as Mr. Beegle’s legal possession of that box is concerned.”

      “Well, are you satisfied?” asked the old man.

      “Perfectly,” answered the young detective. And he made up his mind that if there was a further mystery in the matter he would try to solve it later.

      “Then let’s pull up our mud hook,” went on Mr. Beegle. “It’s getting late and I’d like soon to be back safe in my log cabin. Much obliged to you, Judge.”

      “Don’t mention it. The case is now closed as far as I am concerned.”

      As Bob drove his machine out through Cliffside, in the direction of Storm Mountain, he saw some of his friends coming home from the ball game.

      “Who won?” he called to Fred Merton.

      “We did, eight to six!”

      “Wow! Good enough!”

      The lad and his old companion were soon on a quiet country road. Mr. Beegle had not talked a great deal, occasionally putting his hand up to his injured head.

      “Does it hurt much?” asked Bob. “Had you better stop and see a doctor?”

      “No, thanks. I’ll be all right. I’m not going to give Marbury another chance at me.”

      “Do you think he might try to waylay you again?” asked Bob, not a little apprehensive of being in the companionship of a man against whom, it was evident, some one had a grudge.

      “Oh, he won’t get me now,” was the chuckled answer. “I’ve got the weather gage on him all right. We’ll soon be at my place.”

      Storm Mountain was a small village at the foot of the mountain bearing that name, and Bob soon was driving through it, taking the turns pointed out by Mr. Beegle who sat beside him.

      “The next turn to the left is the road that leads to my place,” said the old man, pointing ahead. They were on a quiet stretch of country thoroughfare, steadily ascending the grade. The flivver puffed and wheezed, but kept on going.

      “Here we are – my shack!” exclaimed Mr. Beegle a little later, after the turn had been made into a sort of dirt lane. “Now I’m all right.”

      Bob saw before him a small log cabin, rather neat and trim, with a flower garden in front, or, rather, the remains of one, for it was now October. And in the rear were standing some lima bean poles and shocks of dried corn.

      Hiram Beegle leaped out of the flivver and stood still for a moment. He looked fixedly at the log cabin and then in a low voice said to Bob:

      “Would you mind waiting here a moment?”

      “No. What for?” inquired the lad.

      “Well, I just want to make sure nobody’s hiding in there to give me another knock on the head. I’ve been away all day – the place has been shut up. It’s just possible – ”

      “I’ll wait until you see if it’s all right,” said Bob, as the old man began a cautious approach toward his cabin.

      CHAPTER III

      STARTLING NEWS

      Since noon that day so many things had happened in Bob Dexter’s life that as he watched the old man walk toward the log cabin, the lad was almost prepared for something else of a startling nature.

      To begin with there had been that hurried trip to the train to get the important papers from Mr. Sheldon. And then there had been his Uncle Joel’s fear lest some one might have tried to get the documents away from Bob.

      Followed then his discovery of Hiram Beegle, knocked out at the side of the road, after the young detective’s encounter with him at the railroad station, and mixed up with this was the mystery of the brass-bound box, the vindictive Rod Marbury and the lawyer’s guarantee as to Hiram’s legal right to the little chest.

      And now, on top of this, some enemy might burst forth from the lonely log cabin.

      But Bob was spared this last act, though as a matter of fact the strong, healthy and excitement-loving young detective would have welcomed something more to bring the day to a fitting close.

      However, nothing happened. For after Hiram Beegle had cautiously scouted about the cabin for several minutes he unlocked the door, swung it back and himself jumped to one side, flattening his body out against the side of the cabin.

      Bob