“ ‘My nephew is to take this notebook, with the accompanying key to the cipher which I shall leave in a sealed envelope, and when he has made himself aware of the contents of the message I wish him to go to the place mentioned and procure the object referred to. This is to be returned to its rightful owner. In return for this favor, I name my nephew, George Hanleigh, as my sole heir.’
“We hereby take pleasure in forwarding to you the notebook and the sealed envelope mentioned by our deceased client and trust you will carry out his instructions to the letter.
When Frank had concluded the reading of this document there were expressions of amazement from the other boys.
“So that’s how he came to get the notebook!” said Chet. “John Sparewell was Hanleigh’s uncle!”
“And Sparewell,” observed Frank, “is dead.”
“Well, that clears up so much of the mystery,” said Joe. “But it looks as if Hanleigh is up against it just as much as we were. We know the secret of the cipher message and it didn’t do us any good.”
“Perhaps he knows something else. Sparewell may have given him further instructions in that sealed envelope.”
Frank looked through the other papers he had taken from Hanleigh’s pocket. He was interrupted by a sudden whisper from Biff.
“Be careful!”
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s waking up.”
Frank thrust the papers back into the coat pocket. There would be trouble when Hanleigh learned how he had been tricked. Then Biff sighed with relief.
“False alarm. He turned over again. He’s still asleep.”
Frank went back to the papers, relieved. He searched through them carefully. But he did not find what he sought. There were no further references to the cipher, to the sealed envelope, or to John Sparewell.
“Nothing else here,” he reported finally.
“We’d better put the coat back under his head,” Joe suggested.
Frank returned the papers to the pocket in which he had found them.
“We’re liable to wake him up if we try to put the coat back now,” he said. “I think we ought to wait until he has had his sleep. Then the rest of you can keep him occupied while I slip the coat back where it belongs.”
“And we’ll ask him what he knows about Sparewell,” said Chet.
“Oh, we’ll have questions to ask him, never fear. He won’t want us to go to Elroy Jefferson with the news about Sparewell.”
Outside, the storm was at its height. They heard a distant crash.
One of the trees at the edge of the cliff had fallen before the force of the gale. The wind was sweeping across the island at terrific speed.
“If this keeps up, we’d better watch ourselves!” remarked Biff. “There are a couple of big trees right near the place. If they blow over, they’re liable to wreck the cabin.”
“Certainly is a wicked wind!” Frank agreed. “And it doesn’t seem to be dying down, either.”
Hardly were the words out of his mouth than there was a rending, crackling sound immediately above the cabin. Then, with a rush and a roar, something went sweeping past the window. At the same instant there came a grinding noise, followed by a thud and a crash on the roof.
“One of the trees blew down!” shouted Biff, in alarm.
“The chimney is going!” warned Joe.
Crash!
Another impact on the roof. There was a shower of mortar and fragments of stone in the fireplace.
“Back to the kitchen, fellows!” yelled Frank. “The chimney is falling in!”
XXIII
The Chimney Collapses
Frank Hardy ran over to the bed where Hanleigh was sleeping. The uproar on the roof had already aroused the man somewhat and he was stirring restlessly. Frank shook him.
“Get up!” he shouted. “The chimney is caving in!”
Hanleigh sat up quickly.
“What?” he demanded, rubbing his eyes.
“Get up! It’s dangerous here. The storm blew down one of the trees and it struck the chimney!”
There was another crash. Stones and rocks went bumping and rolling down the roof, and more debris came tumbling into the fireplace.
Hanleigh needed no second urging. He sprang out of bed, then halted with a groan of pain.
“My ankle!” he said.
“I’ll help you.” Frank seized him by the arm, and Hanleigh hobbled out into the kitchen, where the others were gathered. The cabin was creaking and swaying in the violent wind. Every little while they could hear an additional fragment of the chimney come crashing down onto the roof.
“Is the chimney coming down?” demanded Hanleigh eagerly.
They looked at him in surprise. Instead of being frightened, the man actually appeared glad of the mishap.
“If that other tree blows over and hits it, the chimney will be wrecked,” said Frank sharply. “I can’t see anything to look forward to in that.”
Hanleigh was silent, but there was a look of undisguised elation in his swarthy face.
The wind was a hurricane by now.
Wilder and wilder it blew. The snow was so heavy that the boys could not see more than a few feet beyond the window. The chimney was no longer breaking up and the steady thump and clatter of rocks on the roof had ceased. The fireplace was half full of mortar and bits of stone.
“We’d better stay where we are,” said Frank. “We’re safe enough in the kitchen. If that chimney collapses it will mean trouble for anyone in the outer room.”
Hanleigh limped over to a chair and sat down.
“Might as well be comfortable,” he muttered.
“Certainly,” agreed Frank. He swung around to face the man. Then, quite calmly, he said: “When did John Sparewell die?”
Hanleigh was taken completely off his guard by the sudden question.
“About eighteen months ago—” he began. Then he halted. “What do you know about John Sparewell?” he demanded.
“We know he was your uncle. And we know he disappeared from Elroy Jefferson’s home with
