“We can’t leave her here, that’s certain,” declared Peggy with vehemence.

“No, indeed,” echoed Jess and Bess, who were of the council.

“Then what are we to do with her?”

“Just tote her along, I suppose,” rejoined Peggy; “poor little thing, she doesn’t take up much room; besides, Jess thinks she’s an heiress.”

They all laughed.

“You must have had an overdose of Laura Jean Libby,” declared Roy.

“Roy Prescott, you behave yourself,” cried Jess, flushing up; “besides, she has a strawberry mark on her left arm.”

“My gracious, then she surely is a missing heiress,” exclaimed Jimsy teasingly; “all well-regulated missing heiresses have strawberry marks and almost always on their left arm.”

It was at this juncture that a knock came at the door.  A bell boy stood outside.

“A gentleman to see you, sir,” he said, handing Roy a card.

On it was printed:  “Mr. James Kennedy, Detective, Meadville Police Station.”

“Goodness, a real detective!” exclaimed Jess excitedly; “let’s see him.”

“You won’t be much impressed I’m afraid,” rejoined Roy with a smile at his recollection of the Meadville sleuths.

“Why, doesn’t he wear glasses, have a hawk-like nose and smoke a pipe?” inquired Bess.

“And hunt up missing heiresses?” teasingly struck in Jimsy.

“No, he’s a very different sort of person.  But hush! he’s coming now.”

A heavy tread sounded in the hall and Mr. James Kennedy, Detective of the Meadville Police Force, stood before them.  As Jimsy had said, he was not impressive as to outward appearance, although his fat, heavy face, and rather vacant eyes, might have concealed a giant intellect.

“I’ve investigated the case of the attempted burning of the stable last night,” he began.

“Yes,” exclaimed Roy eagerly.  “Have you any suspicions as to who did it?”

The man shook his head.

“As yet we have no clews,” he declared, “and I don’t think we’ll get any.”

“That’s too bad,” replied Roy, “but let me tell you something that may help you.”

The lad launched into a description of their adventures of the morning.

“That hut belongs to Luke Higgins, a respectable man who is out West at present,” said the detective when Roy had finished.  “He uses it as a sort of hunting box in the rabbit shooting season.  He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“I’d like to know his address so that I could write and thank him for leaving that gun there,” declared Peggy warmly.

The detective shook his head solemnly.

“I reckon you young folks had better stop skee-daddling round the country this way,” he said with heavy conviction; “you’ll only get into more trouble.  Flying ain’t natural no more than crowing hens is.”

With this he picked up his hat, and, after assuring them that he would find a clew within a short time, he departed, leaving behind him a company in which amusement mingled with indignation.  In fact, so angry was Roy over the stupidity or ignorance of the Meadville police, that he himself set out on a hunt to detect the authors of the outrages upon the young aviators.