“Eight hundred dollars!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s the biggest haul yet. I’d like to have that rug merchant by the back of the neck right this minute. I’d shake the eight hundred out of him in a hurry.”
“I guess there’s not much chance of catching him now. He has sold the rugs and made his getaway.”
Mrs. Hardy was silent. She felt the loss of the valuable rug very keenly, and still more keenly did she feel the ignominy of having been imposed upon after all the warnings that had been circulated regarding counterfeit money. But the rug merchant had been so plausible, and as she was an unsuspecting woman by nature, she had never for a moment considered the possibility of trickery.
“We’ll go down and have a chat with the police,” said Frank, getting up. “Although I’m afraid it won’t do any good.”
“Chief Collig will tell us that he is busy following up clues,” remarked Joe, with a laugh. “And that’s as far as he’ll ever get.”
This proved to be the case. When the boys reached the police station they found Chief Collig and Detective Smuff in the midst of a game of pinochle and averse to being disturbed.
When they inquired if there had been any further information regarding the rug merchant, Chief Collig shook his head.
“We’re following up some clues,” he said gravely; “but there hasn’t been any more trace of him.”
“Not a trace,” corroborated Detective Smuff, with a portentous frown.
“Do you think he’ll be arrested?” asked Frank.
Chief Collig looked up.
“Of course he’ll be arrested,” he declared. “Didn’t I say we’re followin’ up clues? We’ll have the fellow behind the bars all right.”
“I’m workin’ on the case myself,” said Detective Smuff, examining his cards wearily.
“Rely on us,” advised the chief. “Your play, Smuff.”
The boys retired. Somehow, they got the impression that the Bayport police department was not exerting a great deal of effort to try to capture the fraudulent rug buyer.
XX
A Note of Warning
Three days later, Fenton Hardy, who had been away from home on business, received a note.
No one saw the man who left it at the door. The Hardy boys were at school and Mrs. Hardy was busy in the kitchen. She heard the front doorbell ring and went to answer it.
But when she opened the door there was no one in sight.
She looked out and saw a man walking briskly down the opposite side of the street. A woman with a baby-carriage was strolling past the house, and farther down the street two men were standing talking on the corner.
Somewhat surprised, and imagining that her ears must have deceived her, she was about to close the door when she became aware of a white object that had fluttered to her feet.
It was a cheap envelope, sealed, and with the name of Fenton Hardy written on it in pencil.
Mrs. Hardy picked it up, examined it curiously, then brought it into the house and placed it on the table in her husband’s study. It was not an unusual occurrence to have letters left at the door in this manner, as occasionally anonymous letters were left for the detective, giving him hints or advice concerning cases on which he was engaged. To most of these he paid no attention, although sometimes valuable information was brought to his notice in this manner.
This, Mrs. Hardy judged, was another such communication, which was why the person who delivered it had been careful to hurry away after ringing the bell.
Mr. Hardy did not return home until late that afternoon. He had been over to Barmet village where the Federal authorities were closely watching two men thought to be in league with the counterfeiters. Mr. Hardy had followed one man to a nearby city and seen the fellow pass a small package to a woman in black, who had quickly disappeared in a crowd. But the noted detective knew the woman and knew where she could be located when wanted.
The boys had arrived back from school, had left their books at the house, and had set out with Chet Morton for a cruise in the motorboat. When Mr. Hardy came back he glanced over his mail and was settling down to read the evening paper when his wife remembered the note that had been left at the door that afternoon.
“Someone left a letter for you this afternoon,” she said. “I heard the doorbell ring, but when I went to answer it there was no one at the door. I picked up a letter, though, and I put it on your study table.”
Fenton Hardy went into the study and picked up the letter, slitting open the envelope. Within, was a thin sheet of cheap paper on which had been written a few lines in pencil.
He read the message with a slow smile, then handed the paper over to his wife.
“Someone trying to scare me,” he said.
She picked up the note. In a crude, ill-formed hand, she read the following:
“Better give up this counterfeit case or we’ll take the shirt off your back. We know this game too well. Let this be a warning to you. Poor Blum is a rank outsider. Better let him go.”
Mrs. Hardy looked up anxiously.
“What are you going to do about this note?” she asked.
The detective shrugged.
“Ignore it, of course.”
“But they may harm you.”
“They may try. They won’t be the first ones who have tried to frighten me away from a case.”
“But they must be right in Bayport, to deliver a note like this.”
“I’ve suspected all along that their headquarters were here. Don’t worry, Laura. I’m not afraid of them.”
“But I do worry. They’re desperate men. They’ll stop at nothing.”
Fenton Hardy laughed.
“It isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened. It’s only a bluff. I’ll stay right on the case—although so far I haven’t been able to make much progress on it.
“But this matter of the note
